Cartoon X-overs 1. Chapter 1

OUT OF RANGE by Gerard Andrews

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Chapter One

A pinpoint of light, and mercifully a whiff of air, leaked in through a small hole high in the rock. There really wasn't much for the light to reflect from, save a few chips of mica glittering in the stone, and tears sparkling wetly in a pair of eyes that had seen far too much that day. Far too many things bound to break the mind and spirit.

The eyes were blue, though reddened from crying. The soul looking out from behind them, one Gadget Hackwrench, was a mouse in torment. She cast her gaze down at her young charge, an orphaned squirrel already more than half her size, sleeping fitfully with his head resting on her lap. His dreams were echoes of horror, made worse by the touch of poison he'd suffered. "Was it worth it?" Gadget thought to herself, stroking Runner's headfur with her aching, scraped paws. "Of course," she answered herself out loud, and inside her heart and mind, her friends agreed without blame or bitterness. "After all," she could hear them say, "that's what a Rescue Ranger is for!"

The one exit to their tomblike cave was absolutely, firmly blocked. Gadget let herself imagine a slow end, withered by thirst, madly climbing the walls in a last attempt to reach the light--and shook her head. No sense in fearing that--the job ahead was easier than digging straight through solid rock, though it would be a heartbreaking task. She brushed an arm across her eyes, lowered her work goggles, and gently moved Runner so that he lay against one wall of the tiny space. She said a silent prayer of thanks that the young squirrel slept on, so he would not have to see.

A huge, still, silent form blocked the way out. Gadget had always felt a little crowded with Monterey Jack looming over her in the Rangermobile, but at that moment she would have given anything to have Monty riding and wisecracking beside her, instead of lying cold and lifeless in a tunnel far underground. She picked up a sharp chunk of rock, pulled a hammer from her backpack, and began chiseling his body free.

Monty had backed in, and could have just barely fit into the cave with Gadget and Runner, but he'd refused. He had pressed against the sides of the tunnel like a peg in a hole, sealing it off from the air in the labyrinth of pathways beyond, and instead of squeezing on through, had dug his feet in. To the last, Gadget had begged him not to throw his life away, and had pulled with all her might on his powerful legs. The big mustached mouse, down to his last coughing, labored breath, had insisted that he was not throwing away his life, but giving it up for his friends. When his booming voice, muffled as it reverberated through the earth, had finally fallen quiet forever, Gadget had broken down in tears.

Gadget forced herself back to the task at hand. Guessing from what she knew of poison gases ("too much," she decided), the air in the tunnels was probably safe again, so she whittled around her big friend with the sharp rock and the hammer. She tried hard not to tear his clothes, snag his fur, or gash his skin--but whenever she slipped, she just gritted her teeth and kept going. The Rescue Rangers had scattered throughout the maze of holes and hollows when the gas started, and against all odds Monterey, Gadget, and Runner had found each other again, just in time for Monterey to make his sacrifice. Gadget knew that somewhere out there in the dark, the others could have found a way out, or could still be alive but unconscious. The gas obviously affected smaller animals quicker, judging by Runner, and Gadget gulped nervously as she thought of the heroic housefly Zipper, the smallest Ranger. He had speed on his side, and was the most likely of any of them to have made it out--but she felt sure that he would not have left his friends behind.

Shoving aside loosened rock, her paws swelling with fresh blisters, she wedged her makeshift chisel between the side of the tunnel and Monterey's body. When she pulled the rock out, she was rewarded with a small puff of air escaping in from the blackness beyond. Ready to plug the small gap again if she had to, she cautiously inched her nose forward. The medicinal, chemical smell of the gas was very faint--in fact, Monterey's cologne (he had favored Old English) overpowered the traces of that horrible substance. At this, Gadget choked back a sob, wrapped her arms as far around Monty as she could, and gave him a hug that came from somewhere very deep inside her. "Thank you, Monty," she whispered. Then she started to shove.

Artwork by Keith Elder

She thought it over, and left Runner where he was for the time being, covered with a blanket from her backpack. If she'd pulled Monterey into the cave, she wouldn't want Runner to wake up to that sight, but instead she'd half-dragged, half-rolled her sad burden into a side tunnel and covered him over with rocks. She would make a marker later, she determined, and made a mental note. In her sadness, she realized that her calculating, matter-of-fact side was really ticking her off. Still, she knew she needed all her wits to find Chip, Dale, and Zipper, and comforted herself with the knowledge that her razor-sharp focus was part of the way she grieved. Shifting the goggles onto the top of her head, wrapping Monty's scarf around her neck to keep out the underworld chill, she set her mouth into a hard line and moved on.

Carrying a map of the way back to Runner only in her mind, she hurtled through the dark, calling out her fellow Rangers' names. Sometimes the sound would bounce back quickly--after slamming into the first wall and badly bruising an arm, Gadget realized she was using echolocation, and avoided the mistake. After what felt like hours, she saw a faint light off to her left.

The twists and turns of the tunnels made it difficult to figure out where the light was coming from. She nearly ran off a cliff when it seemed she was getting closer, and had to backtrack around a chasm so huge that her calls were lost in it. Finally slipping through a tight space, she found the light, which was now beginning to flicker on and off.

Gadget picked up the flashlight and shook it. Some of its brightness returned, though the battery was obviously going. "After all, a triple-A battery only has so much juice in it," she sighed, and shone it around hopefully. Nothing. If the others were out there, they were wandering blind. Gadget was about to head back the way she had come, when she saw the marks.

They started out as pawprints, but then dragged into an unidentifiable blur. Gadget gasped. There was a scuffed spot with blood and fur--she could tell someone had fallen on the rocks--then pawprints again for a short while, with long furrows showing that one of her friends had been dragging another. Then the trail ended with a short drop-off. Gadget could see the tunnel floor below, but could not make out anything beyond. The flashlight began flickering again.

When she had clambered halfway down the drop, the flashlight clenched in her teeth went out all the way. She cursed around the useless thing, thought about putting it in her backpack, but let it drop. Repair tactic number one worked this time--the bulb did not break, and instead blazed into brilliant life. Fearing what she might find, Gadget reached the floor, her back still away from the light. She closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, and turned around.

In their time, the Rescue Rangers had seen some terrible sights and taken a beating. Sometimes Rescues went wrong--Dale once broke both legs and crawled back through a swamp, Monty lost an eye and Gadget had to fix him up a glass one, and Gadget's sister--the good one--had died in her arms. None of that could have prepared Gadget for the horror and unfairness of the sight she faced.

Zipper had indeed stayed with his friends. He almost looked asleep, resting on Dale's lap. There was no familiar buzz of Zipper's trademark snore, though. Dale cradled him tenderly, his own head tipped back and mouth open, slumped against a jagged rock. Gadget crept closer, and could tell from several feet away that neither Ranger was breathing. Dale's Hawaiian shirt stood out against the gray of stone, a splash of color in the gloom. Gadget hated Dale's shirts. They always hurt her eyes. She would have swum to Hawaii to bring Dale back; she would have bought stock in a Hawaiian shirt factory. She dropped to her knees, putting her hands over her face and letting the tears flow. Her sobs fluttered around her like lost spirits.

Chip's left handpaw was clenched in a fist. He was turned toward Dale, determination plastered on his face, and Gadget could tell the last thing he'd done was to reach over and place his own Indiana-Jones-style hat on Dale's head. His right paw still rested on his friend's shoulder. Chip had always been unreasonable about the hat, and had slapped Dale silly once--not that it was too far a trip for Dale--for daring to try it on. Gadget saw freshly-dried blood streaked from Chip's deeply scraped left shoulder on down to his broken forearm, as deep red as the roses he'd given her on her birthday. He'd been the one who tripped. Gadget's mind leaped to thoughts of splints and bandages, for she'd bound so many of her friends' wounds before.

All science seemed to flee from Gadget. Against all her training and empirical knowledge, she put her paws on the two chipmunks and shook them, begging them to come back. She kissed their cold cheeks and slumped between them, her tears flowing through their fur and her own. She picked up Zipper--so light, so empty. That so much energy and loyalty could just roll away into nothingness--she put him back on Dale's lap. Reason came to her again, though she tried to push it away--she could not sit down here in the dark. The young squirrel Runner needed her now, and he was the only one she could do anything for. Down here, the earth was too hard for her to even think of burying the others, and there was no loose rock to cover them. Still sniffling, she stood and looked at her friends. Debating for a moment, she took the goggles from her head, stuffed them into her backpack, then gently removed Chip's hat from Dale's head and placed it on her own. She gently tore a strip from Dale's too-bright shirt and tied back her long yellow headfur.

"Guys," she said to silence, "I'm going now. You've been the best friends I could have ever wished for. I--"

Suddenly, she turned and began climbing, hardly able to breathe for sorrow. Raggedly, for she found herself very tired, she lunged at pawholds and hung on, not wanting to look back. She did, though, and her mouth formed the words. She forced air into the effort. "I loved all of you," she said, and pulled herself up the rest of the way.

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Button images by Keith Elder


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter Two

Chances are, you have never been a mouse trying to drag a half-grown, unconscious squirrel out of a deep hole. As Gadget could have told you, it's no picnic, even when you haven't just scraped most of the fur and hide off your paws, covered a much larger mouse with rocks, and bashed your arm against a wall in the dark. Getting out to fresh air and sunlight would make all this seem like a bad dream, Gadget told herself, though she didn't believe it for a second.

They reached a cleft in the rock that looked like a likely candidate. Gadget could hear the wind whistling, high up above, a hope but no guarantee of escape. It wasn't as though the Rangers had just walked into the tunnels, after all--it had been more of a tumble into darkness that should have killed them all outright. Gadget remembered the feeling of freefall, the scrabble of paws against rock, the bite of the rope around her hips as the weight of the other Rangers and Runner jerked against her harness, her back and arms shrieking with pain--

"Stop it!" cried Gadget, hammering another piton into the rock face. Here was here and now was now, and she couldn't afford to let her mind wander. She rested her sweaty brow against the cool rock, and realized that if she stayed still too long, she would likely pass out. She was reaching a limit of sorts that she'd never really gotten close to before--she was always supposed to be resourceful, bouncy, energetic. Instinct alone drove her now. She reached the ledge she'd had her eyes on for half an hour, heaved her leaden body up onto it, and collapsed.

Her paws were tattered ruins. Fumbling at the straps and buckles, she worked the backpack open and retrieved the blanket. Tearing at it with her teeth, she made strips and wrapped the scrapes as best she could. A part of her mind that would not get tired reminded her of the dangers of infection, and Gadget briefly considered slamming her head into the wall to shut it up. She decided not to spend the energy. She needed every last scrap of strength to pull the limp, dangling squirrel up beside her, using the second line. "Give me five minutes at Radio Shack and I'd have us out of this dump," she muttered, sucking in her breath and straining her back further as she pulled Runner onto the ledge with her.

"If you'd just wake up and help climb, it'd make things a lot easier," she admonished the unhearing squirrel. After all, climbing was what his sort did best. Chipmunks were almost as good at it--but if she thought about chipmunks she was going to cry, so she curled her paw painfully around the hammer and began battering another piton into the rock.

About two-thirds of the way up, it got worse.

The rock was looser up here, and Gadget had trouble finding rock solid enough to hold her pitons. After an excruciating, frustrating hour of hanging on by the tips of her pawpads, she'd made Swiss cheese out of the rock within her reach. Nothing held. Besides that, she could hardly get her arms to do anything but make jerky, uncertain movements, and with each new attempt to secure a new piton, she would miss and smash the hammer into her other paw more often. She saw only one way to proceed, and in her current condition, it was a long shot.

Kicking her feet carefully against the side of the rock wall, hoping for a slightly tighter hold, she let go with one throbbing paw and reached over her shoulder. She loosened the three-pronged grappling hook and managed to get it free and swinging. Her target was a small but solid-looking crevice between two stones, which would have been just barely within reach of Gadget's hook on a good day. It had _not_ been a good day, Gadget mused, and balanced precariously, readying herself for the throw.

Her first throw resulted in a scraping sound as the hook skittered back down the wall at her. She dodged just in time and reeled the line back in frantically, remembering where Runner dangled below. Risking a look down, she sighed in relief. The hook had missed him. As it turned out, once she had the hook back in her shaking paws, it had not missed by much--she bit her lip, blaming herself for the close call, as she untangled a swatch of the squirrel's red fur from the hook.

Twirling the hook again, determined not to let it fall back this time, she launched it at the crevice--sweet Jesus, it held. Cautiously yanking the line a couple of times to test the grip, she put her weight on it and raised her feet. Her slow upward progress finally continued, and she rose above the area she'd tried to pin with a piton. For safety's sake she tried one again--no luck. From here on out, their lives depended on the creaking, shifting hook above--the rock was just too unstable.

There were several moments when Gadget was sure she and Runner were both dead. She heard the hook rock back and forth, gritting closer to popping out--but it never did. She reached for the crevice where the hook had taken hold--reached up--had it. She swayed there for a moment on her line, breathless. She could feel a welcome breeze cross her face, ruffling her fur. They were so close to being out, she was sure, and hope welled in her heart.

Artwork by Keith Elder

She pulled herself up onto one of the two rocks the hook had wedged between. With a sudden rumble and snap, the rock was out from under her, plummeting--she slammed into the other rock, her grappling hook sailing off into the dark. In a flash, she steadied herself and pulled hard on the line connecting her with Runner, swaying him out of the path of the rock--the line jerked in her paws as she heard a faint, sickening _thump_ from far below. Her mouth hung open in horror as she heaved at the line, feeling Runner twist and turn like a pendulum.

Edging the battered young squirrel onto the rock with her, fighting back her fear and self-blame, she saw the damage. Runner was still breathing--a bit irregularly now. One of his arms was badly battered, his left leg was broken, and a welt had sprung up on the side of his head. "Oh, no," moaned Gadget, "on top of everything else, I've given him a concussion!" There was time for guilt later, she forced herself to accept, so she took up more slack and began climbing paw over throbbing paw toward the evening's last light that winked into the hole above. First things first, she thought grimly--a real doctor for Runner, a well-earned but short rest for herself, and vengeance for those dearest to both their hearts.

Guilt was a luxury, and it could wait.

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Button images by Keith Elder


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter Three

A few hours later, and many states away, a telephone began to ring. It was a small telephone, and one that everyone prayed would stay silent. It had cooperated thus far, forgotten and gathering dust in a closet in a room that had been boarded off and abandoned. The only reason it was still able to ring was that animals are not as particular about phone bills as humans are.

Half out of fear of its being a real emergency, and half out of fear that a human upstairs would hear and tear up the floorboards, two mice were alternately (and frantically, to be sure) attacking the newly-plastered wall with their bare paws, desk chairs, and a coat rack. They were making a racket themselves, and a janitor mouse thrust his head angrily into the office.

"Hoy thar!" bellowed the scruffy, dusty mouse, bits of dried plaster still stuck in his fur. "Lay offit, I just got doon with et--beggin' yer pardon, Sir, Ma'am, but cut thet oot!"

Chairlady Bianca, normally sweet and polite, whirled about and pinned him with a glare as steely as any mousetrap. "Dead mice don't wear plaid, even if they are Scottish! If we don't get to that phone, the U.N. might call in exterminators!" With a squeak of disgust, the Janitor nodded glumly and let the Chairmice get back to destroying his morning's work. Bianca's companion laughed under his breath.

"What is it, darling?" the Chairlady asked, ripping out a chunk of the wall and casually sending it sailing into a wastebasket across the room.

"Three points! Well," chuckled Chairman Bernard, "not too long ago, I'd be the one fixing this wall again. Plus, you did say you were tired of pushing papers all day."

Bianca rolled her eyes. "I suppose that's why they call us Chairmice--we don't do anything but sit and sit--"

The mice heaved at the shifting section of wall and it fell open like a drawbridge. They landed in a heap together, rebounded, and fell all over each other again in their scramble for the phone.

They managed to pry the closet open after chipping through two decades' worth of paint along one side. Bianca grabbed the grimy, age-cracked receiver and held her breath as heavy footsteps sounded above in the United Nations offices. "Hello?" began a tinny voice through the telephone.

"Shh!" hissed Bianca. "Just a second."

A creak of floorboards and a knock sounded from above. "Must have been my imagination. Ever since that Pink Floyd concert, my ears won't quit ringing…" The human voice faded away as its owner walked off. The mice slumped gratefully in the bare, dusty room.

Bernard wrinkled his nose. "At least he's a Floyd fan. He'll probably go smoke something illegal and forget about us."

Bianca put the receiver to her ear again. "Rescue Aid Society here, though we were just about to need some rescuing ourselves--"

"Is that you, Bea?" came the tired voice on the other end.

"Gadget? Oh, heavens--it's been so long. Why are you calling on the disaster line? We didn't even know it was still in service!" A sound that was almost a laugh bubbled through the earpiece. "Are--are you all right, dear?" stammered Bianca, as Bernard pressed in close, cocking an ear to catch the conversation.

"Would I be calling the disaster line just to say hi?" groaned Gadget. "We need a doctor--medicine's just one of my hobbies and I don't think guesswork's gonna cut it this time."

"How awful! Who's hurt?" There was a rattle on the other end of the line, then silence. Bianca and Bernard regarded the handset with shock. "Gadget? Come on, say something!"

Artwork by Keith Elder

"Sorry, Bea," Gadget came in, rustling and faint. "Dropped it. Paws are thrashed. I've got a squirrel here with a broken leg and a good bump on his head. Some of it is my fault. I'm pretty banged up myself."

Bianca shook her head in wonder. There had been trouble with Rescues before, but seldom bad enough for a Ranger unit to report in. They were set up to handle their own problems, more or less--

Bernard grabbed the phone. "C'mon, Hackwrench, if it hurts to hold the phone, then let me talk at Chip or Monty." Bianca narrowed her eyes at Bernard but he cut her protests off with a raised finger.

Gadget's voice was nearly a whisper. "Wow. History lesson—Bernie, right?? Hey, you still the janitor? I've got a real mess here for you to clean up."

Gadget looked around, hollow-eyed, at the wrecked hideout. The huge security monitor screen was smashed and trailing wire. Shredded clothes were strewn across the floor (mostly her own, and the wreckers' choice of items was none too comforting). Half-eaten food was rotting in the corners. Burned-out pieces of furniture sagged with their skeleton springs showing through…and worst of all were the misspelled, rambling threats scrawled on the walls in blood-red letters. Beyond all her shock and sorrow, Gadget was truly grateful she hadn't been home when it happened--God, she might have been--

"Gadget?" crackled Bernard through the makeshift receiver Gadget had pieced together, thankfully startling her off that line of thought. "Where are you?"

Sprawled out on the floor of the empty office, Bernard and Bianca listened, more and more horrified, as that odd half-laughter came through again. It worked itself hoarse and broke into sobs. Gadget gave it a professional effort: "Rescue Ranger Outpost One, complete loss of equipment and personnel, get me a goddamned doctor."

Artwork by Keith Elder

Devin Packard didn't quite fit the bill. Damnation, especially by God, is something you have to work really hard at, and his circumstances could best be described as a run of bad luck. He was living out of a very large suitcase--as a packrat, the only thing he'd ever managed to keep organized. A cockroach had thrown him out of his apartment a week ago for back rent. The cockroach was one of those big hissing ones from someplace way down south, and until a week ago had been Devin's landlord. It would have been an easy matter for Devin to take the bug's head off with a single bite, but he hadn't, for three reasons. First, cockroaches have relatives everywhere. Second, he wasn't that desperate for a free meal yet. The last reason, which really counts for two, was that a cockroach can live for several weeks without its head, and no doctor on earth would put any living creature (with the possible exception of Rush Limbaugh) through that sort of crash diet.

Yes sir, Devin was a homeless packrat with an expensive education and no intentions of living with his parents again. Life with two professional thieves is never easy, after all. And med school--if a spleen went missing and reappeared in the cafeteria, or if someone switched Cantonese take-out menus for a professor's lesson plans, who did they immediately blame? Devin. Sure, right, blame the packrat.

The only switch Devin had ever pulled at school was turning his life around. Top of his class, charity work at the free clinic, gave blood without asking for any back…and still, everywhere he went, the questions were the same. "Weren't your parents the Perilous Packards? Cheese thieves extraordinaire? Hey, they putting you through college on that Gouda they grabbed?"

Devin could have had his pick of internships. The secret Animal Section at the Mayo Clinic, the noted Flight of Angels wing at Mount Sinai, or even the Thorn Valley Institute…they'd all fought, well, tooth and claw to snag him. But Devin knew that at any of those places, no matter how much he accomplished, his parents' infamy would follow him like the smell of Limburger left out in the sun too long. He wanted to go somewhere no one gave him a second look--somewhere he could blend in--and most of all, somewhere he was needed. The Big Three had all the whiz kids they needed--Africa, or maybe South America, that was the ticket. Some little backwoods place that would keep him very, very busy and leave him no time to get a swelled head.

When you're a restless, young, would-be hero of the furry variety, there's only one game in town. Devin decided that a week living on the streets of New York was enough primitive living practice, shook the change he'd panhandled out of his shoe and into his pocket, and knocked on the small but hallowed doors of the Rescue Aid Society. Off to see the world!

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Button images by Keith Elder


	4. Chapter 4

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Chapter Four

Dark and smoke-smelling places are not the most pleasant to wake up to, but Runner sensed with his squirrely, high-strung nerves that he was in a high place closer to light and fresh air. That was a plus as far as he could tell, though even his thoughts came slowly. A concerned face swam into view over him…it was the mouse from the tunnels. She was pretty. Short, but pretty. And so tired, she looked so…hurt. The look she was giving him made him feel distinctly like a machine with an important gear loose, and that disturbed him because he sensed he was making a guess that was too good. His head felt twice normal size, and when he tried to speak it was like shaking marshmallows out of a bag with a hole that wasn't big enough.

Artwork by Keith Elder

"Gllmrg…" he ventured, trying to raise an arm that felt like it was on fire. The pretty mouse with the yellow hair held the arm down and Runner decided she knew what she was doing. He played smart and stayed still, Gadget—ah, that was her name, though it came slow like everything else—Gadget, speaking far-off and relieved words at him.

"Runner…you had a nasty bump on your head. You—_I _hurt your leg, too. Getting out, I knocked rocks loose."

He began to nod in understanding, and wished he hadn't. The world went red and then a bit clearer than it had been before. He looked around at the ruin of the Rescue Rangers' hideout, decided it looked like a garage sale in Hell, and focused back on Gadget. Something unpleasant came to his mind all at once, and he had to say it. "We…didn' all megg it oudt."

Gadget shook her head sadly, brushing his fur gently and making soothing sounds. Runner squinted his eyes and thought about his parents, knowing they were a part of the 'we' that…wasn't. He began to cry, and Gadget covered him with her arms, poor comfort but all she could give. The world went away again for a while, as Runner let the tears and his still-exhausted muscles take over.

At least he was sleeping naturally now, reflected Gadget, and watched the rise and fall of the young squirrel's breath, catching now and then with sorrow even in his slumber. Gadget suspected she'd done all she could for him alone—the dressing on his head was clumsy but all she could manage with her mangled paws, and the splint on his leg was better than she'd hoped for. She looked down at her fellow survivor and tried to decide how she felt about him.

"Motherly" wasn't the word. Runner's quick thinking and quicker reflexes had bought them both precious time in the tunnels. No—if anything, Gadget felt that short and frantic dash they'd shared below the earth qualified her more as a new friend; maybe in time a proud sister. She was short enough on friends at the moment, and she'd be honored to call the brave young animal one. He didn't need mothering from her.

Where was that doctor, anyway? The Rescue Aid society was big, well-connected, even powerful in its way, but Gadget feared that mountains of paperwork were holding up the help they desperately needed. She was at the bare end of her strength, and her paws would be even worse off when the rest of the feeling came back. "Screw the paperwork," she fumed, tugging gingerly at the dressings on her paws, already soaked through with blood. "Just send us a live body with credentials." She couldn't remember anyone or anything scratching her right shoulder, but three long red streaks oozed through the unripped fabric of her shirt. Somewhere along the line, she'd changed clothes, but couldn't say just when about that, either.

Gadget slumped to the floor beside Chip and Dale's bunkbed, where Runner slept in fits and starts. She felt like screaming, for plenty of reasons, but knew that her new friend needed all the rest he could get. If she was going to go nuts, she'd have to do it quietly. Her eyes darted around the room, memories of happier times flitting around the place like ghosts—

--something caught Gadget's eye. She'd never looked under the bunkbed (she usually steered clear of it altogether, remembering a close call or two)—something was under it! Ignoring the pain in her paws as best she could, she threw herself flat and wiggled every inch of herself under to reach it—a box, with a thick piece of twine wrapped around it. Only two creatures on earth could have opened it without scissors, and Gadget was the only living one. She fumbled the box out into the light, her paws throbbing, and whistled in surprise. Though Dale was cluttered and haphazard in so many other things, he did know his knots. Once, on a bet, he'd tied Gadget's hair back with one of his cunning specialties—a week later, shamefaced, she'd slunk back to him to have him untie it. Dale hadn't gloated or made fun; he'd taken the knot off gently and taught her the secret. At that moment, she wouldn't have minded his undoing a few other things, but her lost bet had only ended up costing her a kiss she didn't mind at all.

The box she held was Dale's, for sure.

At every tug of the twine as she loosened it, she felt as if she were rubbing out a mark Dale had made on the world. It hurt, and not just physically, but she had to know what he had hidden away. She slid the last loop off the box, the knot still intact. On a hunch she'd check later, she stuffed it into a pocket.

The object of more pressing interest lay open on her lap. Gadget sifted through the contents, heart breaking at every well-worn comic book and crumbling fall leaf. Rubber bands, strange rocks, and bits of wire; the treasures of a good and gentle soul.

And the envelope.

Gadget didn't want to unseal it, even though it bore—well, what Dale had intended to be her name—'GADJIT' written out in block letters. "What on earth were you up to, Dale?" she murmured.

Retrieving her pocketknife with shaking paws, she prayed for a steady cut. She was already getting blood on the envelope from her aching paws, and the last thing she needed now was a self-inflicted knife wound. She slit the envelope open and pulled out a single worn piece of paper.

Tattered, crossed-out, rewritten over and over, the writing was peppered with more misspelled words than normal, even for Dale. From the spidery scrawl and the tone of the words, Gadget could tell dale had been uncommonly nervous while picking away at it. She'd never seen him work on it, so it must have been a very secret thing—and it was one of the biggest shocks she'd ever had.

It was mostly a list of things Dale loved about her—she made a fist and bit it, trying to keep the tears back. It didn't help. She sobbed as she read how much her courage, creativity, and kindness had meant to him. As a friend, she'd brought great joy to his life, but he wanted to do and be so much more for her—

She put the paper aside and slumped to the floor, shell-shocked, but managed to feel around the bottom of the envelope. Her paws found slippery purchase and she pulled the golden precious thing free.

Artwork by Keith Elder

Click here for Robert Knaus' version, here for Mel Drake's,

or here for Kevin Sharbaugh's.

She looked back to Dale's notes, which ended with a reminder to state his case next Saturday night. He never could remember to do anything without writing himself a note—

"Why now? Why did you get the courage now?!" cried Gadget, but choked it off as Runner turned and complained in his sleep. Gadget calmed, wiping away her tears with the note, then coming back to her senses and blowing the paper dry again. She traced over Dale's last heartfelt and bittersweet line—"Wil yu mary me?" Gadget's breath caught in her throat as she nodded slowly and wonderingly. "I would have said yes…" she whispered, and put the ring on her right paw, as widows do.

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Button images by Keith Elder


	5. Chapter 5

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Chapter Five

Artwork by Keith Elder

Devin gulped and groaned. Feathers lashed around him as the pilot-bird hummed tunelessly, dodging between trees and hulking skyscrapers, their reflections flashing by on one-way windows. "Don't worry," the bird cackled. "This is my regular route!" Devin wondered how often the humans inside these towers of glass and steel saw the inexplicable figure of Wilbur the albatross and one of his passengers. Devin also wondered how many of them told their therapists about it.

Lastly, he wondered why they weren't flying over Africa. "Why are we in the city? I mean, the trees and parks and museums and all are great, but shouldn't I be on a more rugged and challenging kinda assignment?"

"Domestic work first, kid," Wilbur shot back over his shoulder, flapping with great deliberation and a touch of sadness in his voice. "Besides, if you want a challenge, there's nothing tougher than shutting a Rescue Ranger team down."

"Whoa, wait a minute—" started Devin, and Wilbur took him literally, stopping on a dime.

"I'm gonna stall now, thank you," sniffed Wilbur, and made an earth-scraping dive before pulling back to cruising altitude. "Only say whoa if you gotta."

Devin turned an unhealthy shade of green for a moment. "Sure, sure. But – shutting down? I thought I was just supposed to drop in and give 'em a little first aid."

Wilbur clicked a troubled tongue. "Too late for that, Doc. You're going in to fix up the sole survivor of Rescue Ranger squad Number One, and shut the operation down."

Devin felt worse. "Th-the Rescue Ranger squad? Chip, Dale, Gadget Hackwrench? Monterey Jack and the Housefly Hero? They're gone?"

Wilbur grimaced. There was no nice way to say it. "Hackwrench made it, but she's physically unbalanced. Maybe mentally. She watched at least one of them die, and found the rest of them…after. It's in your folder. You did read it, didn't you?"

"I was too busy learning how to jump off an albatross."

"Read it. And a piece of advice—get the job done and pull out. Ten to one there's a long sad story behind this mess, but let Special Teams fix it."

Devin nodded, but in his heart he knew he'd probably get into as much trouble as possible. There was, after all, a woman involved, even if everything he'd ever heard about her made her sound like a cross between Linda Hamilton, Martha Stuart, and MacGuyver. "Women," he thought to himself, "are trouble but worth it. That's my weak spot."

Gadget would not have felt up to Devin's comparisons. She wobbled on the deck entrance to what had been the Rescue Rangers' headquarters, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. Her shoulders, paws, and back sang a nagging tune—she'd slapped fresh bandages on the scrapes, but the blood still flowed. The cuts on her right shoulder worried her most, not only because they were deeper and obviously claw-marks, but because she had no idea who'd put them there.

The white bird in the distance had to be the Rescue Aid Society flight—albatrosses usually meant that. Besides RAS service, they were infrequent visitors to the Rangers' city—"Or," mused Gadget, thinking on local villains, "Fat Cat's city, or Dr. Nimnul's city. If they're up to anything, I'm in no shape to stand in their way. Not alone. C'mon, Doc, we've got work to do."

A figure on the back of the approaching bird stood up in his sardine-tin seat and mouthed a few unintelligible words at his bird-pilot. Then as they climbed higher, the passenger rocketed out of the seat, pulling the ripcord on his miniature parachute. Gadget breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the albatross wasn't going to attempt a landing—Wilbur, she saw it was. He glided away as Devin confidently pulled his adjusting lines and floated down toward her like a descending angel with his medical bag. "Strike that," thought Gadget. "It's more like watching Mary Poppins sailing in on that cheesy umbrella." She looked up—up—and over. "Get down here, you're gonna—"

CRASH!!! Gadget couldn't bring herself to look up at him. She bet the doctor wasn't happy, either. He dangled above her, branches poking through the white fabric of his 'chute, complete with RAS emblem. "They just gave us one practice jump," grumbled Devin, as he tugged at his harness.

"Well, I can't climb up and cut you down—I can barely stand up myself." Gadget sat down.

"S'okay," grunted Devin as he undid a strap. He peeled out of the harness like a banana, slamming into the warped wooden platform below. He lay there very still, breathing heavily, then pushed himself up. Gadget nearly giggled at the sight, but couldn't. Here he was, come to help, and she wasn't about to make him feel unwelcome if she could help it. She extended a bandaged paw and he pulled himself up to sit beside her. "You do that bandage?" He prodded gently at the strips of cloth. "I haven't seen that weave in years. It's good but we need to change it again." He pulled a roll of gauze out of his medical bag and began unwrapping her paw.

"Nice to meet you, too—ouch!" Well, at least he took his job seriously.

"Sorry about that. Well, Miss Hackwrench," he said stiffly, getting a pair of impatient eyes rolled at him for his trouble, "officially reporting for duty, Rescue Ranger squad One—"

"—oh, cut that out," growled Gadget. "There's no real chain of command in a Ranger squad, and I don't think I even count any more. Right? They sent you here to calm me down, shut me up, and get me to leave town—"

"I don't know about any of that yet, Miss Hackwrench—"

Gadget cut him off—"Gadget, Gadge, Hackwrench, anything but 'Miss'."

Devin nodded. "Okay, Gadge. My name's Devin Packard, DVM—"

A sudden change came over Gadget and she pulled away from Devin's bandaging. "DVM? You have to be kidding me. After all this, my friends dead, my home trashed, my everything hurts, and they send a _veterinarian_?" Her voice trembled at the indignity, but Devin just sat there and watched. He'd seen this before.

"Oh," said Gadget, tilting her head as if suddenly picking up a radio transmission. Devin sidled closer to her, expecting her to keel over the rest of the way. She was obviously dehydrated, and had probably lost more blood than she gave herself credit for. She definitely wasn't thinking clearly. "Of course, you're a veterinarian, " she managed, "y-you're an animal."

Devin chuckled disarmingly, patting Gadget on what he hoped was an unbruised section of her back. "You say that now? Wait until you know me better." Gadget half-smiled, and got ill all over his black patent leather doctor shoes. So much for introductions.

* * *

Button images by Keith Elder


	6. Chapter 6

****

Chapter Six

Gadget apologized too often for the shoes. Devin told her it was all in the line of duty, and turned to face a more unpleasant challenge.

Artwork by Keith Elder

Devin's nose wrinkled as he stepped through the entrance to the Rangers' devastated hideout. As the door was off its hinges and propped precariously against a nearby wall, he had the eerie sensation he was stepping into the empty eyesocket of a withered skull. For clearly, whatever good and wholesome had filled this place, it had been gouged out violently. Devin's mind helplessly played back old images from a preparatory class at Rescue Aid Society—of a jumbled wreck left by a human psychopath and his particular pack of lunatics. There were no dead bodies here, but the air held a similar wrongness. He shivered, glancing over the profane and sloppy paw-printed words smeared on the walls; curses to the Rescue Rangers and tributes to all things evil. "Special Teams would need to photograph every square inch of this place," Devin gulped. It _all_ looked like evidence to him, from the ruined audio/video equipment to the lopsided remains of the furniture.

Gadget scared him nearly out of his fur, tapping a freshly-bandaged paw on his shoulder and making him jump like a miniature kangaroo. "Pretty spooky, huh? Oh, jeez, I didn't mean to—breathe, silly, or _you'll_ be the patient!" She guided him down to a burst, shredded couch cushion, probably the softest thing left to sit on.

"Whoosh! I don't think I'd want too much of this air in my lungs. I mean, Marilyn Manson—Charles even—might feel at home in this godawful place, but I feel sick." Devin gasped smoke-tasting air and craned his neck around in disbelief.

"We did a lot of good work here, the boys and me," Gadget said apologetically, making as if to sit down. Devin absentmindedly pulled half the stuffing from his cushion and bunched it up for her. She smiled graciously, if still a bit woozily, and sat next to him. "So, I take it you disapprove of the decorators." She shuddered again at the ugliness of the transformed room, covering her eyes and batting at the sight with one paw as if she could make it go away.

"I'm certainly not booking them for my next party," Devin decided. "Even if it's a Halloween party. The only booking these guys need is into a jail cell, or a nice bright padded room."

Devin turned as a voice called out from a shadowed hallway. "Gaddit? Izzit docker?" it ventured, sounding full of effort and confusion. Whoever it was, the voice continued to try to get questions out, warbling something off-key and urgent.

"That would be Runner," Gadget said, dusting herself off and gesturing for Devin to follow her. "Squirrel. He had—well, I _gave_ him—a head injury, concussion maybe, and his speech comes and goes." Gadget walked calmly toward the sound of the squirrel.

"Better see if there's any swelling." Devin kicked his way free of the remains of the cushion, and cautiously advanced toward the hallway Gadget (without the slightest hint of fear) had entered ahead of him. Devin was sure something was going to jump out at him, fall on him, or whisper his name in a low raspy chuckle, but none of the expected horror gimmicks came into play. It just got darker as he went in.

Runner lay very still on the lower bunk of the bed, watching the doorway with large and frightened eyes. He relaxed as Gadget knocked and opened the door a crack. "Hiya, Gadit, izza dokker—" he frowned, thinking hard. "Did you get a doc-tor?" he managed, fairly clearly.

Gadget quickly stepped to his side and adjusted the cold compress on his forehead. "Shh. Yes, we have a doctor here now. We'll have you back on your feet and talking in tongue-twisters in no time," she assured him. Devin stepped in, tapping his medical bag and smiling.

Runner shot a dubious glance at Devin. "Verry new dokker."

Devin nearly stumbled, taken aback. "Not that new, sport," he chuckled. "This is my first house call, but I've seen a lot of patients." Devin came up beside Gadget and lifted Runner's damaged arm. "Bruises and scrapes," Devin noted with a click of his tongue. "Nothing too nasty. But I hear your head hurts, eh?" Taking up a corner of the cold compress, he gently parted the fur on Runner's forehead as the young squirrel flinched. "Easy, easy."

"Whassa dokker's name?"

"Devin. You can call me that, or Doctor Packard." Devin pulled back the covers and examined Gadget's effort to splint the young squirrel's broken leg. The leg was a mess, but the splint was a first class job. Devin's eyebrows quirked with surprise at yet another example of Gadget's far-flung expertise.

Runner began snickering under his breath as Devin looked him over. "That doesn't tickle, does it?" asked Gadget. "This isn't exactly fun and games."

Runner shied away from the cold stethoscope, but Devin pinned him down and listened intently. "No, dokker's name, Packer. Perliss Packers, emma feefs stole alla cheese, all over belitishun—tebilshibin—on the T.V. newbs." Runner squinted at Devin again, nodding in recognition. Devin frowned and folded his 'scope, then gingerly felt around the sides and top of Runner's skull.

Gadget scratched her head. "Do you know what he's babbling about?"

Devin rapped Runner's head gently—but not too gently—with his knuckles. "No idea, he sounds confused to me." Runner gave him a dirty look. He wasn't fooled for an instant. "Well, Runner," Devin went on, "you took sort of a glancing blow. No real swelling, so your noggin's not too scrambled. Do you hear the way you sound?"

Runner rolled his eyes and nodded furiously. "Woorgs come ow funny suntimes."

"I'll bet that's driving you nuts. I don't think it's the bump on your head, though—"

Runner shook his head solemnly. "Gags. Poysn gags."

"I think he means the gas in the tunnels," Gadget translated. "That's what—what killed my friends. It almost got Runner and me both, and he got a whiff of it—nerve damage, maybe?"

Devin looked at Gadget with a renewed respect. This wasn't just a damsel in distress, he reminded himself. This was a living legend, a Jill-of-all-trades, and she had just reminded him of the medical knowledge bouncing around in her multi-talented brain. "Good call, Gadget. That's what it looks like to me, too." He turned his attention back to the fidgeting squirrel. "Okay, pal, you're going to have trouble talking for a while, but just keep trying. Maybe you could write, if we find something in this mess to write on, okay?"

Runner grinned and nodded. "Lossa worgs I can grite down. Ten, twenny, maybe."

Gadget laughed and smiled. Devin quietly basked in the glow of that smile for as long as it lasted—it fit her better than the frazzled or downright gloomy looks she'd worn since they'd been inside. "Well, that's a start," Gadget offered, and patted Runner's shoulder.

"Say, Trigger—" began Devin.

"_Runner,_" the squirrel admonished him. "Trigga sha horsh."

"Runner, then. I've got to go over some things with Gadget, so we'll just let you rest, okay?" Devin eyed the door nervously. He did not like this place, but there were things he and Gadget would have to look at for his report.

"Okay," said Runner, and snuggled back into the covers. Gadget tucked the blanket around his shoulders and he was settled comfortably. He closed his eyes, so Gadget headed for the door as Devin put things back in his medical bag. Devin stood to leave too, but Runner shot an arm out and grabbed his jacket.

"What the—well, you're pretty sneaky, Runner."

"Yeah," agreed the young squirrel. "Um—abow Gaddit?  
"What about her?" Devin cocked his head, amused and touched at his patient's concern.

Runner thought hard, mustering all his concentration. "Be cafull with her. Someting wrong, she walk aroun' all dark n'empty. Not jussa losing her frens, some bad else."

Devin gently pulled Runner's paw loose from his jacket and covered him again. "I'll be careful. If anything's wrong with Gadget, we'll find out."

"Hope so." Runner closed his eyes, headed for some real sleep this time.

* * *

Button images by Keith Elder


	7. Chapter 7

****

Chapter Seven

Artwork by Keith Elder

There was a flapping of wings on the outside landing, and Gadget tiredly stumbled into the light to investigate. Gadget had pretty much exhausted any ability for surprise that day, so she didn't even startle at yet another odd visitor on her doorstep. A pigeon perched on the deck, hopping impatiently from foot to foot and trying to shake a message off its leg, frustrated by the rubber band.

"Hey, rat, come get this letter off my foot," the pigeon insisted.

"I'm a mouse," offered Gadget.

"Rat, mouse, whatever," screeched the infuriated bird, turning its head from side to side to look her over. "I'm not exactly big on binocular vision here, kapeesh?"

Gadget grimly stalked closer to the bird and whipped the rubber band off its leg and taking the slightly oversized, rumpled scrap of paper. The pigeon sighed with relief, strutting around the small deck and stretching the leg out. "I mean, what am I, a refrigerator for some bozo to come and stick Post-It notes on? Do I have the word 'Frigidaire' tatooed on my forehead? I don't think so."

"Thanks for the message," Gadget managed to get in edgewise.

"I'll give you a message. Here it is: I quit. I'm never working for a cat again. Wrapped me up in rubber bands like yesterday's newspaper. Unh-uh, forget it." Before Gadget could ask him about the cat business, the pigeon had scrabbled his way into the air, hauling tail as fast as he could from the treehouse hideout, and away from the city by the looks of it.

Shaking her head in confusion, Gadget retreated into the dark recesses of the Rangers' desecrated stronghold, amazed again at how little it felt like home now. It struck her that it had never been only the place that had captured her heart, but the rare combination of people in it. No more, the empty rooms spoke to her. No more.

Gadget and Devin sat down to the sad task of taking inventory. As a side project, Gadget hoped to scrape together enough odds and ends to rig up a makeshift viewscreen. Actually showing the destruction to the paper-pushers back at Rescue Aid Society was a goal she pursued with grim determination. Devin kept a close eye on her, warning her to rest a few times when her efforts took too much out of her. In Devin's troubled mind, a phrase kept repeating itself. "Pretty spooky, huh?" That had been Gadget's severe understatement. Devin hadn't seen the place at its best—hadn't seen the pillowfights and card games, late-night movie marathons. He hadn't been a part of the life that went on in the Rangers' hideout between times of trouble. But he guessed at what the good times might have been like, and considered himself almost lucky he'd never become attached to the place. Devin sorted through the piles of shredded cloth and broken glass, keeping himself safely apart from the evidence with latex gloves and a stranger's vision. Gadget, Devin realized as she brushed a discreet tear away, could not separate the rubble and ruin from the happy home it had once been.

"Shouldn't Special Teams bring their equipment in?" Gadget grimaced, pulling back from her unpleasant task and stretching on a new pair of gloves. She'd been sorting through shards of viewscreen glass for a while, the paw bandages keeping her from getting sliced as often as Devin. It was painful work for her, but she wasn't about to let Devin take on the mess by himself.

"Special Teams will have their paws full," muttered Devin, holding a large jagged piece of glass carefully by the edges and breathing on it. Fogging, the glass revealed a nearly complete paw-print. He whipped a Zip-Loc out of his doctor kit, and bagged the piece. "We're after evidence that might not hold up long enough for S.T. to run it through the mill. 'Sides, look at this place."

Devin had a point. Gadget had carefully stretched string across the main lounge in a grid pattern, and had filled a notebook with observations and locations of evidence. It looked for all the world like a proper police crime scene, and Devin could see Gadget hated the effect. "I know it's tough to see your home all broken up like this, but you're doing the best you possibly can to avenge and honor your friends. We've mapped out and protected the scene, and given everybody a head start on catching the bastards responsible for all this." Devin absentmindedly bagged a patch of brown cloth with three ragged, bloodstained scratches ripped through it. Maybe the lunatics had been fighting each other... Devin dropped the evidence into his medical bag for safekeeping.

"What do you think will happen to—" started Gadget, choking up. "—do you think they'll let me fix the place up? I mean, me and the boys built this place with our bare paws, but Rescue Aid paid for everything. There's a lot of damage, but I'm sure with a little time I could patch things—"

Devin gulped, and opted for the truth. "Rescue Aid will probably want you to take a long—leave of absence. They'll find work for a Ranger of your talents, I'm sure..."

Gadget groaned, plunging her hands back into a pile of shredded and smoke-stained papers next to a filing cabinet in one corner. "You mean they'll stick me behind a nice safe desk while the 'real' crime-solvers do my job."

Devin frowned. "Hey," he nearly barked at her. "You're for real. This is the front lines. It's just not going to do anyone any good if you overwork yourself."

Gadget blushed a bit and spread her paws apologetically. "Okay, so you've got a point. Don't get so hot under the collar. Get yourself a drink or something." Devin shrugged his shoulders and stood, whipping off his gloves. He was pretty thirsty.

"Get you anything?" he ventured.

"Just a glass of water, thanks." Gadget grinned. "Remember, you're at B-20 on the grid." Devin raised an eyebrow and stepped carefully out of the square of string. Scooping up his medical bag out of unavoidable habit, he resisted an impulse to high-step through the squares on the way out—this was no place for a football drill.

* * *

Button images by Keith Elder


	8. Chapter 8

****

Chapter Eight

Gadget shook her head at Devin as he disappeared into the dark hallway. "Lights are definitely a priority," she decided. One of the biggest factors giving a haunted-house effect to the hideout was the lack of good illumination. Almost every bulb in the place was smashed, even the extras stashed away in the spare-parts room. It seemed as though the vandals had gone on a search-and-destroy mission, for though the destruction was widespread, nothing else had suffered the same careful violence directed at the lighting fixtures. Invariably she or Devin had found lamps untouched or only slightly cracked, while inches away their bulbs had been stomped on with obvious fury, ground nearly to a crystal powder. And they'd always taken the time to _unscrew_ the light bulbs from the bases. It felt ritualistic, or at least very well planned—the miscreants had brought their own light sources. Scattered throughout the dwelling were dozens of burned-down candle stubs, leaving trails of wax dripping down the sides of tables and boxes like limestone cave formations in miniature. "Why did they hate the electric light in here?" Gadget thought out loud, and opened her notebook again to get the question down in writing. Maybe the thought would percolate in there and in her mind for a while and boil itself down to an answer.

When she opened the spiral pad to jot the note down, a folded piece of paper fell out. Gadget slapped her forehead. She hadn't bothered yet to read the letter dropped off by the reluctant messenger pigeon. Her stomach took a churning drop as she recognized the paw-writing on the front. Shakily, she unfolded more trouble, and read:

Dear Ms. Hackwrench:

I will not pretend to say I am sorry for the loss of your friends, the Rescue Rangers. As you know, you and they have been thorns in my side for far too long. In fact, I am sorry that it was not I who sealed their fates. Still, I will give them their due: they were worthy adversaries with hearts far truer than mine--I'm just a business-cat, after all. The closest thing from sympathy you will get from me is this: even I would not have chosen such a cowardly way of killing your friends. They would have seen it coming.

Besides, someone has robbed me of the pleasure. Rest assured I want to know who it was. I really, truly want to know. As a matter of fact these freelancers, these riff-raff who have taken it upon themselves to annihilate your friends without so much as offering me a front-row seat—from all reports (I have my sources, never you fear) they're very sloppy. Your friends were quite careful and organized, which is why they lasted so long--all of my sloppy enemies are quite dead, and I plan to add the Rangers' killers to that list.

Until that day, I swear: if a dark shadow falls upon you, it will not be mine.

For what it's worth,

Fat Cat

Artwork by Keith Elder

Gadget dug her claws into the letter, eyes squeezed shut. "Oh, Lord," she muttered. This was not the sort of ally she needed right now. She was intimately familiar with Fat Cat's methods, and she felt very lucky to not be on the receiving end of his current cold rage. No other villain had given the Rangers such close calls; no one had put them through as much terror and torment as that feared and vicious feline crime boss. Still, Gadget had almost hoped Fat Cat was responsible for the horrors of the past few days. It would have put her on familiar ground at least, but now the creep was going out of his way to distance himself from any of it. If Fat Cat had planned her miseries, he would be taunting her openly, proud to have brought her down. Instead, he'd come as close to condolences as he was capable of. The thought of being on the same side as Fat Cat, even for this once, gave her a cold chill. This was the most unwelcome sort of help coming out of the woodwork at just the wrong time.

* * *

Button images by Keith Elder


	9. Chapter 9

****

Chapter Nine

Coincidentally enough, Devin was dealing with woodwork of his own. He had walked down the silent hall to the kitchen, after a simple drink of water for himself and Gadget, and had opened the door on yet another mess. There were shattered dishes littered all over the tiled floor of the room; the usually bright stainless steel and glass of the counters were obscured with layers of soot and grime. More candles here. Devin didn't even want to think about what they'd been eating in there.

The sink was mostly empty, and Devin found a couple of untouched cups at the back of a smashed cabinet. He rinsed them well just to be sure, a little surprised that the taps still worked, and was about to head back for the main room when the pantry caught his eye.

It was intact—maybe the first unbroken door he'd seen in the hideout. It was jammed shut, and someone had carefully crammed a wedge of wood under the thin folding door in a cunning fashion, so that Devin had to reluctantly kick the door apart to get in. It fell into the small closet with a crash, and Devin heard Gadget call out from down the hall. "You okay, Dev?" she boomed.

"Fine!" Devin cupped his hands and yelled back. "Just checking something out!"

Devin saw the flashlight first—another small mystery, as nearly every other electrical light source had suffered destruction at the paws of the invaders. He flicked it on and shone it around the dark recess. His mouth fell open, at first in surprise, then twitching into a stunned smile. Medical supplies! Syringes, bandages, even—gods, antibiotics! Blessed little foil packages and bottles, a treasure trove. Why hadn't Gadget told him? There were ointments for her and Runner's scrapes, painkillers—

Devin's smile fell. "That had to be a trick of the light." For a split second, the flashlight had lit up a name on one of the pill bottles—a name that had no place among these other drugs and supplies meant for healing. Devin slumped to the floor, staring at the lower shelf. He reached into his medical bag and snapped a pair of gloves on again, then gingerly turned one of the bottles around to look at the front of the label. He checked it twice and winced once, picked the bottle up and shook it—nearly empty. Damn. He felt sick. Only a few places on earth made small-animal-sized tablets like these, none of them run by humans, and they all had "Hospital" or "Institute" in their names. He had almost gone to work for one.

Wanting to wipe his paws clean on his jacket instead, and to never touch the cursed stuff again, he bit his lip and pulled back out of the pantry, carrying the bottle with him. It felt much heavier than it was. "This is bad. Very bad. I wonder who they used it on—" A sudden thought sent Devin fumbling through his medical bag. He pulled out the shredded piece of brown cloth, shining the flashlight through the plastic bag. Those scratches—"Oh no..." Devin couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All he could do was run back down the hall, medical bag forgotten, clutching a bag and a bottle full of evil news.

Devin burst into the wide main lounge, nearly tripping on Gadget's careful gridwork of string. Devin's eyes were wide and haunted—Gadget set aside her measuring tape and rushed to his side, careful not to disturb the piles of debris she'd so carefully mapped out.

"Gadget, this is awful!!! Things—I found these—" he babbled. _Get your head on straight_, he told himself. _At least one of you needs to stay sane._

"What are those?" Gadget eyed the tablets with a cold dread, something picking at the furthest edges of her memory –more a hint of a feeling than a real recollection.

Devin gulped. If he was right, it would bring what little was left of her world crashing down. "Show me your arm again, Gadge." Gadget obligingly rolled up her sleeve, baring the angry red clawmarks on her shoulder. Devin, tears welling, held out the small plastic Zip-loc bag with the piece of cloth in it.

"Hey, that's a piece of my old work-shirt," Gadget started, but Devin went on with his awful task.

Artwork by Keith Elder

"—I found it in one of the piles on the floor." He held it gently against her wound—the rips in the bloodstained fabric matched the deep scratches perfectly. Devin looked down, unable to meet Gadget's eyes. "This isn't good at all, Gadge."

"You think--" Gadget breathed. "You think I was _here?_"

"I don't think, I _know_. These tablets are a knockout drug called Rufinol. You _were_ here when the place got smashed up by—whoever. They gave you the drug, and I doubt you took it on your own. I bet you fought back at first, from those scratches." Devin shut up. He'd just dropped a bombshell; all he could do was wait.

Gadget sank, trembling, to the floor. Devin crouched beside her, holding her arm to at least give her a little physical stability. "Fought back against _what?_" she managed, huddling in on herself.

Devin closed his eyes and forced the words out. She needed to hear it; all this beating-around-the-bush crap was going to screw her up worse. "Oh, Gadge, I hate to say it, but anything at all could have happened..." Devin shakily wiped at his eyes as Gadget started to sob silently against him. He had to finish. "Anything could have happened, and probably did—"

Gadget choked out hoarse sobs. The tears went on and on, Devin feeling inadequate to the task. She needed a pillar of strength; he felt like Jello. When she could take a full breath, she cut right to the heart of it. "I've been—I've been raped?" All Devin could do was nod silently and hold her.

* * *

Button images by Keith Elder


	10. Chapter 10

****

Chapter Ten

Much, much later, Devin would successfully argue his case to a panel of fidgety, uncomfortable Rescue Aid Society bigwigs—their emergency medical personnel would never again drop into uncertain, dangerous situations without being prepared to handle the ugly realities of rape. They would have the training, the supplies—

Under current conditions, in a halfway burned-out, isolated Ranger outpost with precious little diagnostic equipment, there were only a few crude, outdated checks and tests Devin could call on. They were only enough to confirm that Gadget had indeed been through a terrible ordeal, yielding little else that would be helpful to investigators. Devin put his best doctor face on and did what he had to; Gadget bore up bravely under his examinations, still having trouble admitting to herself that the damage had been done. Doctor and patient realized the clinical fact, but the consequences were slowly and painfully creeping up on both of them.

"I want to tell," Gadget rasped in a voice hoarse from crying. "We have to get in touch with Rescue Aid before these—" Gadget trailed off, at a loss for words that Devin understood perfectly.

"—monsters, Gadget," Devin growled matter-of-factly, packing away medical tools he prayed he'd never have to use for such horrible, heartbreaking work again. "Only monsters could have done this to you—" Devin spat the words out in his helpless rage, but Gadget's forceful tone shut him up.

"—to my home," Gadget burst out. "To my friends. For God's sake, with those murderers out there, we can't waste a second. We have to talk to Bernard and Bianca, get the word out before this happens to anyone else!"

Devin winced and began to speak, but held his tongue. There were more, deadly things he held secret and wished against, things he could not bring himself to speak of yet. Even in her exhausted, shellshocked state, Gadget picked up on something dark in Devin's silence. "What is it? You look like you want to say something..." Gadget pinned him with a steely glare, her no-nonsense, analytical side glinting through her grief for a moment.

Devin was caught. "Please don't make me go into it right now, Gadge. It's—something you need to know, and Rescue Aid, but I don't want to say it more than once."

"It's something really bad?" Gadget narrowed her eyes at him.

Devin felt the slick bottle of knockout pills in the pocket of his lab coat, wanting to smash them under his shoe, scatter the dust to the corners of the earth...oh, how he feared the second awful truth lurking there, one that could throw so many lives into doubt and shame. He prayed he was wrong, but his eyes had not failed him. "The word 'bad' doesn't begin to cover this, Gadget. It terrifies me, almost as much as the way you were—attacked."

Gadget saw the fear crawling under Devin's fur, threatening to turn him inside out. _Better let this go for now_, instinct cautioned her. "Okay. Save it for the report if you have to. Let's get to work." She felt a hint of her old resolve kicking in, along with that cold feeling she always hated. _Why do I turn into this when the worst happens? _she pleaded silently. It was probably what had kept her alive for so long, she reasoned, but that didn't feel like a very good answer just then.

Gadget insisted that a visual link with RAS headquarters was an absolute necessity. Devin sadly agreed. If anything was going to make the paper-pushers in New York get off their tails and start the investigation seriously, and soon, it would be actual images of the destruction all around herself and Devin, Gadget said. Devin suspected the hollow look in Gadget's eyes—the look she tried so hard to cover up, and that made him so heartsick—would be another image they'd have a hard time forgetting. He also feared that once he'd spoken his piece, the RAS would stay away from this crime scene as surely as if it were infected with the plague. He knew they wouldn't risk letting even one more investigator in on the situation. Devin told Gadget a video link would be the best way to report his findings, too, but refused to discuss the subject further.

The smashed vid-unit had been state-of-the-art, one of Gadget's pet projects. Chip, Dale, and the others had always made it a running joke—Monterey Jack suggesting she plug in a few virtual reality headsets while she was at it, Dale lobbying all the time for smell capability... She'd always laughed off the smell adapter idea, but had tackled the VR with a vengeance, getting it halfway working before—

Gadget hissed through her teeth. Before, before. "Get with the program, Hackwrench," she grimly berated herself, and kept sorting through the ruins of the electronics for one more twist of wire, one more circuit board to start with. Devin for once stepped back and twiddled his paws—technical (and especially electronic) work was not one of his strong points. He admired Gadget's determination, but was worried—resourceful and strong as she was, most people who had been just been through her sort of experience would be in heavy-duty counseling, not assembling a two-way video communications system. Devin had gently hinted that Gadget might want to take a rest and get back to work the next day, but her brief irritated growl was all the answer he needed. She apologized for being so single-minded, then went back to soldering for another hour, mouthing surprising but appropriate curses under her breath all the while.

Artwork by Keith Elder

Devin shook his head in wonder. It was uncanny how much she was getting done with half-broken, shorted-out materials and equipment—"She's building tools to make tools," he muttered, scratching his addled head and trying to keep his eyes focused on her flying paws as she assembled components dragged from her careful piles. Every now and then she'd have a heavy piece of junk for him to help lift, and he gladly stepped in. He felt a lot of conflict about that: for all his years of medical training, learning how to fix muscles, bones, and tendons—anything fixable that could go wrong with a creature—when it came to technology, he was a beast of burden. A puller and lifter. Crazily, it was comforting—he didn't have to use his brain while he was doing the physical work, and his brain had been overtaxed and shocked too much that day. Gadget was worse off, Devin knew—it's a hard thing to tell anyone, let alone your role model, that she's been hurt in ways you can't begin to imagine.

Button images by Keith Elder


	11. Chapter 11

****

Chapter Eleven

Late at night or early in the morning, by now working in squint-inspiring, flickering candlelight, Gadget declared the system operational, in theory at least. She and Devin were grimed from the tips of their noses to the tips of their tails from hours of cutting, soldering, bending, and otherwise making pieces of metal and plastic do things they were never designed to do. Devin had actually gotten in more construction work than he expected—his surgical skill turned around to shaping several pieces per Gadget's specifications. At the heart of the system was a microphone salvaged from a wrecked VR headset, as well as an old black and white picture tube the creeps in question hadn't got around to smashing. It was tiny compared to the old vid-screen, but Gadget had mounted the camera on a swivel made from an old rollerskate wheel. She'd chipped the camera out of the wall, a fortunate remnant of the otherwise defunct security system. Gadget would have given almost anything for that missing videotape—but, she reflected, her most valued possessions had already been ripped from her.

That thought, coupled with her exhaustion, brought the last day crushing down on her. It nearly sent her spiraling into a total physical and mental crash. She could feel herself sagging, giving into her despair, blown into dark like the fluttering flame of a candle, snuffed. A random and forgotten tool slid from her paw; she rocked unsteadily on her hind paws and thought to herself, _I'm drowning in this. I'm going out for good._

Artwork by Keith Elder

As if in reply, solid arms as grimy as her own took her shoulders, and a voice whispered in her ear. "That's exactly what they want, Gadget. They are here in this room again, right now, only this time in your head and heart because you are letting them back in. Don't let them do it. You're too good for that, too strong. If ever you stood up against evil, stand now. Stand and pray with me."

It was the last thing she'd expected from a trained medical professional, but it made her break out into open tears. She nodded through them, still not facing Devin, but just letting him hold her against the darkness. She knew what she wanted to say, if Someone was listening, but it had been forever since she'd prayed out loud. "God," she trembled, "h-hold my friends tight. I miss them so much! I...God, it's been so long, help—show me how to honor their memory--where to look, and how to live with this." She tried to go on, but was too choked.

Devin squeezed his eyes shut. She had so far to go, and there was so much guilt in her voice, so much rage and shame in her shaking body. "Lord," he pleaded, his heart going out to her and up in supplication, "we're in over our heads. Guide us both through this dark time, and let this good woman find peace."

At this, Gadget turned to face him, head lowered, gripping his arms as he gave her just enough space and just enough support. Her tears fell onto the tips of his black patent-leather doctor shoes. They stood there like that for a good while, tired to the bone and tired to the soul. It was good to be quiet. The candles were mere tongues of flame hanging on to the last drops of unmelted wax, their light failing as sun began to slip into the empty doorframe. "Somebody's supposed to say 'Amen,' right?" Gadget joshed, a flicker of strength sounding in her uncertain words. Devin patted her shoulders, making sure she could stand on her own when he let her go.

"See?" asked Devin, sunlight beginning to trace his whiskers in the near-dawn. "You do remember how to pray."

Gadget smiled tiredly. "Amen," she agreed, and they turned to the doubtful-looking device they'd spent the night scraping together. In the light of the new day, it looked like a third-grade science fair project, but Devin suspected it didn't have a single crossed wire. He tacked on a quick, silent prayer that Gadget could uncross her own wires—maybe with the help of the Almighty and a young veterinarian.

It came as a surprise when Gadget asked Devin for one more of the latex gloves from his medical bag. "No sense risking a nasty shock the first time we turn this thing on," Gadget explained, and Devin gladly dug into his supplies.

Gloved and ready, Gadget turned a dial deep in the guts of the machine and flipped a switch. It sparked at her once but she pulled back quickly. "Temperamental contraption, innit?" she frowned as she flapped her slightly scorched paw. The glow from the picture tube—just showing static at the moment—was a welcome spot of technology in the midst of the burned-out candles and other chaos. Devin was reminded again of the odd hatred the vandals had shown toward electric light, leaving the hideout without a lamp or lighting fixture in operation. There were spots Gadget had pointed out where the intruders would have literally climbed the walls to get at the lightbulbs—that's what one of the Rangers had done every time a bulb burned out.

Right now, the hiss of white noise was a welcome sound to Devin and Gadget's ears, a pulse of civilization in this otherwise lifeless shell of a place. Rescue Aid was in for a shock, he grimly thought. _Strike that—several shocks._ Devin chuckled at one consideration he hadn't—considered. "How do we plug this thing in, Gadget? Getting power to it was one minor miracle—"

Gadget smiled tiredly at him. "So far that's one of the best things I've found out about you. You believe in miracles, even if they are small ones. Well, the lines for the old video connection are shot, so I figure our best bet is the phone line."

Devin looked around the mess, twisting and turning. "I haven't seen a phone since I was here," he puzzled.

"See the headset over there? It's only wired for one number, but that's all we need." Gadget sighed. With the new communication system obviously a little dangerous to operate, would he even touch the phone?

Devin fingered a floppy collection of half-bare wires that looked like it belonged in the cockpit of a World War Two bomber. It did have earpieces—well, one and a half anyway. "This is the phone?" Devin handled it as if it were a porcupine.

"Just twist those two wires together, and don't mind the buzzing sensation. Once you let go, it goes away." _If you let go,_ she almost added, but decided against it. Devin slapped on the makeshift headset, found the loose ends she was talking about, and gingerly crimped them together between his paws. He let out a 'yipe!' of surprise before he heard the dial tone.

__

Buzzing sensation? Yeah, right.

Button images by Keith Elder


	12. Chapter 12

****

Chapter Twelve

The world is so constructed—some would say so well-constructed, and others would like to throttle them—that events cannot go on forever, or even for long, without a touch of comic relief or at least irony. So it was that about 6:30 AM, New York time, a newly-assigned Disaster Line Attendant was sawing logs at a dusty desk, in a dusty office that was scheduled to be sealed off and forgotten several days ago—by the attendant himself. That was before his promotion from janitor, and he wasn't used to being up this early in the morning.

Artwork by Keith Elder

As a consequence, Dennis—for that was the former janitor's name—had nodded off over his phone and his "Furry Highland Lasses" magazine, dreams of reddish-brown fur and short plaid skirts skipping through his brain. Janitors had an odd habit of getting promoted suddenly at Rescue Aid, even the silly ones now and then. The recently upgraded Dennis snorted and twitched his whiskers in his sleep, his feet kicked up on the desk underneath a halogen lamp. Little besides the bits of broken plaster, the miniature 1979 United Nations calendar yellowing on the wall, and Dennis' well-scuffed shoes gave the impression of his being anything but a cheese tycoon taking a well-earned snooze. His earpiece and microphone, trailing wire from beneath his tweed cap, were another sign that he probably had duties other than sleeping and reading questionable literature. In his short experience as Disaster Line Attendant, nothing had come through the earpiece except a misplaced pizza order, so he wasn't too concerned. Chasing the russet-furred, saucy young highland mousy miss through that flower-strewn, dream-hazy glen was a far more pleasant pursuit than drinking enough secondhand Starbucks coffee to stay up listening for--

"HEY!! IS ANYBODY—scrape, thump Gadget, are you sure this buzzing in your paws goes away? You mean I can't let it go without losing the conn--IS ANYBODY LISTENING TO THIS FRIGGING THING?" Devin's voice boomed through Dennis' earpiece. Dennis howled back in shock and pain, kicking the desk lamp to bits and fumbling for the volume control as feedback screeched into his ear. Turning it down, he thanked God he'd paid attention when Bianca had shown him how to work the earpiece. _A few marr seconds o' that and I'd a lost ma hearin', _he thought hazily. And just as he'd been closer than ever to actually catching that mouse-maid in his dream--

"Good marnin, Reschue Aid 'Ciety," Dennis forced himself to say, keeping a civil tongue in his head only by sheer willpower. _It'd better be a bleedin' disaster, or I'll tairn it into one,_ he vowed. _Ach, ma pore ear! _"D'saster Line Desk, Dennis speakin'."

"Dennis!" exclaimed the voice on the other end, at a much more manageable volume. "This is Devin Packard—I met you while I was up there." Dennis could hear Devin cover the phone and turn away, talking to someone. "It's the janitor," Devin didn't muffle quite well enough.

"No, Ah'm naught the janiter na more, you silly veterinary. Ah've been pra-moted, and Ah'm lis'nin out for people like you in tribble on this here D'saster Line. Yar the farst caller all marnin." Devin harumphed and corrected himself. "Ma farst caller evver. What seems ta be the problem?"

"A disaster," Devin stated flatly. "What's your security clearance?"

Dennis frowned. He wasn't actually a lazy sort but he'd hoped, for the best of reasons, to never answer a disaster call. "They upped et to a Level Three," Dennis drawled cautiously, with a hint of pride. "Tho thar's some things Ah'd rather not know."

Devin made a sound, a unique blend of agreement and disgust, that Dennis couldn't quite decipher. "I know how you feel," Devin replied. "I can only call the main situation here a massacre. Rescue Rangers—the original unit—all wiped out except for Gadget Hackwrench." Dennis gasped, and was about to say something comforting and endearingly Scottish, but Devin headed him off at the pass. "Dennis, I don't have much time to chat. Can you plug us into the video network?"

Dennis pulled off his tweed cap and scratched the scraggly fur beneath. "Beg pardon, Mister Devin, but yer callin' in on an audio line." Either Devin or the line itself hissed at him, making him wince. "And it's got a good crackle in it. You canna expect us ta hook up a newfangled viddy-whatever to the likes of—hello?"

A rustling, thumping sound told him that someone was taking the phone from Devin. The slightly hoarse but definitely familiar voice growled through the line at him. "Dennis—you're probably a good janitor, but you've got a lot to learn now. The answer to 'Can you plug us into the video network?' or any other vitally important question is not 'No.' The correct answer is 'I don't know, but I'll damn well find out.' Then you go and find out. Okay?"

"Yes, Miss Hackwrench," Dennis meekly answered, flushing from ear to ear with embarrassment. There are some people you just really don't want to tick off, for the sake of your own health, sanity, or career, and Gadget fell into at least two of those categories. "Ah'll see what's ta be done."

Gadget sighed. "I'll tell you what's to be done. See the line running into the wall?"

Dennis turned and looked. Electricians and telecomm techs had swarmed the office yesterday, taking the phone out of the old closet and linking it up with the new building-wide system. Sure enough, the line ran into a new wall-mounted plate with one spare jack. "Ah see it, ma'am," he confirmed.

"Take the line and move it to the bottom jack. It should be marked 'Data.' C'mon, Scotty, warp speed."

Button images by Keith Elder


	13. Chapter 13

****

Chapter Thirteen

Rescue Ranger units are almost by definition out of the loop. Off the beaten path. They make their own rules and no one bugs them. They're generally made up of decent, hard-working furry folks who get along well with each other. As a result, they're not in the gossip game. News that isn't extremely local gets to a Ranger team by visitor or by accident, unless a situation is big enough that the teams have to get together with RAS by teleconference.

The simple and natural fact that two high-ranking RAS members had gotten married was not considered a crisis, so Gadget was far more shocked than Devin when the first pictures came through on the vid-screen. Though they'd obviously taken a moment to compose themselves, the Chairmice had been sleeping a little late—when the view popped up, it was of Bernard and Bianca perched on the side of their bed. Bernard was in a nightshirt and Bianca in a tasteful nightgown (augmented by a quickly retrieved bathrobe). Devin wasn't at all shocked to see the Chairmice in such close quarters—he'd come to Rescue Aid just in time to blunder into their wedding, as a matter of fact. Gadget couldn't have known, and it was a strange experience seeing friends (besides skunks and badgers) in black and white in any case.

Artwork by Keith Elder

"Gadget! Devin! We've been just worried sick—" Bianca blinked sleepily.

"Chairman, Chairlady--I'm sorry! Did we w-wake you up?" Gadget took a step back from the camera in surprise.

"Not really. I was about to take yawn a shower," said Bernard, stretching. His movements appeared out of sync and jerky due to the slow connection.

Perhaps noticing Gadget's uncomfortable stance and averted eyes, Bianca waved a paw at her. "Oh! We didn't get a chance to tell you. Your trouble was so important we forgot to. Bernard and I, we're married!" Bernard reached out and encircled his wife with his arms, hugging her tight.

Gadget's mind went straight to Dale. She couldn't help it. _That's what Dale wanted for us. That would have been just fine with me._

"As soon as we got back from Australia! We held the ceremony in the main Assembly chambers. But listen to us babble. Gadget, are you—holding up okay?" Bernard watched his question sink in. He patted Bianca on the back and they became very still and serious.

"No, I'm not. I think—" Gadget cast a glance toward Devin, who was turned almost away from the camera, a dark look on his face and fiddling with something in his pocket. "—I think if Devin weren't here, I might have really gone nuts by now."

"I'm so sorry, Gadget. Can you talk about it yet?" Bernard leaned forward, wiping a smudge off their camera. Devin decided lurking around looked bad, and came to stand in front of the camera.

"There's a lot to say," began Gadget. "The quick version is that my friends are all—all my fellow Rangers are dead, murdered." The Chairmice winced and held each other tighter. "There were a couple of squirrels named Sal and Myra along with us, and we were going to rescue their son Runner, who had fallen into a deep gap. Only it wasn't really quite like that. He didn't fall—someone pushed him, and waited for us to go after him. We almost had him out, climbing up a rock face underground, then someone cut our lines—"

__

And everyone tumbling through the air, weightless, then slamming into the wall, she recalled with a shudder.

"Some of us were already hurt then. Our attackers—I hate to keep calling them that; I wish I knew who they were—" Gadget slammed a fist into her other paw, the anger building in her. Devin's stomach lurched at her words—his secret was the beginning to that puzzle, and of much more trouble—

"Darling, don't beat yourself up. Just tell us what you can," Bianca gently urged Gadget, reaching for Bernard's shoulder almost subconsciously.

Gadget nodded bravely and continued, her voice quivering with the effort. "Our attackers started a rockslide down on top of us, after tossing a couple of canisters of gas in. I don't know what kind, I haven't been back to check. We shouldn't have scattered the way we did, but it was panic all over. We ran down different tunnels, all of us—" Tears rolled down her lowered face. Devin touched her arm to get her attention, and handed her a handkerchief. _He's old-fashioned in some strange ways, but that's okay,_ she thought, and his simple gesture gave her a bit more strength to go on. "Only two of us got out. Me, and Runner--the squirrel we went in to save in the first place, and I almost killed him accidentally, dragging him out of that godawful cavern. Clumsy, clumsy—" She clenched the handkerchief in her paws, shivering.

Devin stepped closer to her and put a paw over hers. "You can't blame yourself, Gadge. You're a survivor, in a lot of ways. You don't have to feel guilty in any way."

Gadget wiped at her eyes, shaking her head. "But I do. All the time, thinking 'what did I do wrong? Why didn't I smell a trap?'"

Someone cleared a throat. It was Bernard. He crossed his arms and cocked his head, as if sizing Gadget up, though he knew her strength ran deep. "You and the other Rangers would have gone in anyway, with Runner in danger. That's your duty, and your friends died doing it."

"Not because of anything you did or didn't," Bianca added forcefully.

Gadget raised her head to meet Bernard and Bianca's eyes. "That's good of you to say, but it's going to take me a long time to believe that."

"What in the hell happened to your headquarters, Gadget?" Bernard demanded.

Gadget stepped aside and let Devin fill them in on that. It was mostly guesswork, what with all the candles and scribbled threats, smashed lightbulbs and spoiled food. He reached the point in his telling when the pills appeared, and his voice wavered.

"Rufinol? What's that? I certainly don't like the way you say the word," Biana probed. Devin looked to Gadget now.

"I don't feel right telling them, Gadget. Do you want to?"

She nodded, and stepped back fully into view. She smoothed the tear-streaked fur of her face and stood as straight as she could, hoping she could get this said without collapsing in front of the Chairmice, even on a vid-screen. These were the mice who really had the final say on whether her career as a Ranger was over or just greatly changed. Though she knew them to be good at heart, they might decide she was too unstable to continue her work, and she respected them enough to step down if they asked her to. She had to show them that Hackwrench could still hack it.

Gadget took a deep breath. "I'll tell you myself. I don't remember, because I was drugged with that Rufinol that Devin told you about, but I was most likely—" She shut her eyes and made her mouth move. "It's Devin's medical opinion that I've been—raped by one or more of the—the sick bastards who killed my friends." She went quiet now, opened her eyes, and watched the faces of the Chairmice crumple slowly in shock and sadness.

"Oh, Gadget, I can't tell you how much that hurts me to hear," mourned Bianca, wiping away a tear with her bathrobe. Bernard just held her by her shoulders, not looking up at the camera.

"My heart is breaking for you, Hackwrench," Bernard forced out. "You're one of the best people I know, and for this to happen to you—"

"You know you're like family to me, Gadget," offered Bianca. "Maybe you even are family, if you believe that old rumor. I feel this like a knife in my stomach."

"It gets worse," said Devin, out of nowhere. The time had come. Gadget did a doubletake and perked up her ears at his words, and the Chairmice startled just as badly.

Gadget could make no sound, she was so thrown by his suggestion that something more could be wrong. "How?" she mouthed. Devin pulled the bottle of pills from his pocket—he'd carefully bagged them as soon as he'd shown them to Gadget, telling her half of the truth—the half that concerned what had been done to her and her alone.

Devin knew that two futures rode upon the words he was about to speak. In the future he would fight so hard for, a small, determined group of investigators would quietly and carefully close in on the villains who had taken away so much of this remarkable mouse Gadget's life. In the other future, the one he feared, he saw politics and confusion, maybe even open battle, and Gadget's plight forgotten in the chaos. He honestly didn't know which would come to pass, but he knew the time had come to speak the truth he'd kept as tightly bottled as the pills that proved it.

"This is already the worst disaster in the history of the Rescue Aid Society and the Rescue Ranger program, Devin," fumed Bernard. "How could it be worse?"

"Because," Devin quietly explained, feeling like he was accusing the Pope of blowing up an airliner— "someone from Thorn Valley did this."

Button images by Keith Elder


	14. Chapter 14

****

Chapter Fourteen

Three hours later, Devin's ears were still burning.

Speaking badly of Thorn Valley in polite circles is an excellent way to get shredded. It is too shining an example of hard work, sacrifice, and achievement to ever earn it a harsh word. Bernard had nearly popped a blood vessel. Bianca had been on the verge of hissing at him like an alley-cat. Gadget was certifiably stunned, but had stood by Devin's side as he bore the weight of the Chairmice's wrath. Devin had never had such a tongue-lashing in all his life.

One look at the pills stopped that, cold.

Now, with the vidscreen safely silent in the corner, and no frantic questions hounding him, Devin sat staring through an amber-colored plastic bottle at the pills inside. Embossed on every single one of the hurtful little things were the initials "T.V.I.", which could only mean that the Thorn Valley Institute was about to get some very unwelcome attention.

"You've sure done it now," Gadget broke in, her voice still tinged a bit with awe. "There's no telling what they'll do, the way you stirred them up. I mean, Bernard and Bianca are taking it to the whole Assembly soon, so they'll have animals from one-hundred-and-eighty-five different countries calling for blood..."

"Calm down. It's not like the Rescue Aid Society is going to declare war on Thorn Valley or anything," Devin gulped. They were quiet for a while after that. Gadget thought too hard and shuddered now and then. "At least I hope not," Devin finished.

"They need to send someone in to look around." Gadget said, "not a SWAT team or a raft of special investigators--"

"Justin and his Guards would eat them for breakfast if they came swarming into the Valley without a clue of what they were doing." Devin permitted himself a guilty smile at the thought of a pencil-packing Rescue Aid investigative unit pinned down by sword-wielding rats in really neat uniforms...

"You know Justin? The Thorn Valley one? I mean, it's not as if anything else could surprise me today, after your little show-and-tell session." Gadget reached out and jostled the pill-bottle in Devin's paw.

Devin sighed and packed the pills away in his medical bag again. _ They're in the dark, at least. I wish I still were._ "I don't know him personally, Gadge. Just a lot of rumors and a couple of history classes. I'm a rat, after all, and I keep an ear to the ground."

"And that's a pretty big ear," snorted Gadget. Devin rolled his eyes and groaned. Gadget jabbed a paw at Devin, still chuckling slightly. "I'm sorry, I know we should be all serious-like and sit here waiting for news from Rescue Aid, but my mind's always working. And it's worked something out about you."

"Yeah? Like what?" Devin was suspicious, but secretly very glad Gadget was in better spirits, even if it turned out to be at his expense...

"I figured it out." Gadget sat back against the wall, crossing her arms smugly.

Devin was at a loss. "Figured--"

Gadget eyed him piercingly. "I've heard about rats like you. You're a Justin groupie."

"Wha-groupie? Justin's no rock star--" Devin waved her off.

Gadget leaned forward, raising a paw to stop him. "But he's as famous as one. C'mon, admit it. I bet you secretly wish for all his influence and control--the big roomy burrow, the secret meetings, the great outfits..."

"That's silly. I went to vet school to help out furkind and make a diff--"

"--Yeah, but there's part of you that wants to kick butt, swing a sword around, maybe break the rules and marry someone outside your species, say a mouse--" Gadget choked and blushed. "Geez, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that--"

Devin put his head in his paws sheepishly. "Don't worry about it. Okay, okay, so there are some cool fringe benefits to being like Justin. I'll admit I've read just about everything Elizabeth Brisby-Justin's ever written, even the mystery novels."

Gadget cocked an eyebrow at him. "Mystery novels?"

It was Devin's turn to blush. "All right, romance novels. But you still don't know who's going to end up together until the end. I say that counts as a mystery. I only read them because they're set in the Valley."

"Yeah, right." Gadget cracked her knuckles, rubbing it in.

"What, are you going to hold this over my head forever?"

Gadget put her chin on one paw, 'hmm'ing to herself and letting him suffer for a little while. "As long as you're good, I won't have to tell anyone."

In the corner, the vidscreen crackled and sparked.

"If that's not an incoming call, get ready to hit the dirt," Devin said, shielding his eyes from the electrical arcs.

Gadget leapt off her feet and in front of the camera, waving her arms. "Devin reads romance novels! Devin reads r--"

"DON'T YOU DARE!!"

"Just having a little fun at your expense," Gadget began, but the vidscreen cleared--a jerky image of a fidgety Bernard and Bianca breaking through the static again.

"What was that about romance novels?" Bernard nervously chuckled. Devin shot a dirty look at Gadget, who covered her face.

"Nothing, nothing," Gadget said through her paws. "Just blowing off a little steam."

"Well, while you're blowing off steam," Bianca started testily, but caught herself. "I'm sorry, Gadget. Rescue Aid delegates from all over the world are calling in, and all of them are cheesed off--" Bianca startled and covered her mouth with a paw. "--pardon my Hungarian."

"You should hear some of these guys," growled Bernard. "The Israelis offered to send a strike force wherever we wanted one, and the Italians are calling in all sorts of favors--"

Devin paled and gulped. "I hope you didn't mention the Thorn Valley connection to anyone."

The Chairmice shuddered in unison. "Heavens, no," Bianca reassured him. "That's between us four, for the moment. And of course Thorn Valley doesn't know about any of this, not even about the other Rangers--"

"--and they'll blame us for not telling them sooner. Never mind that we have to send a special courier all that way. Thornies don't even do radio." Bernard threw up his paws in frustration. "Right now any move we make is going to get us into deeper trouble," he fretted, stepping off-screen and rummaging around. "Damn lamp."

"Oh, leave that alone. Let the janitor change it," Bianca called after him, rolling her eyes. "My husband, the maintenance mouse," she apologized to the camera.

"Sorry, force of habit," Bernard shot back. The light from his side of the screen grew brighter. Hardly realizing it, Gadget reached for her shoulder, tracing the deep scratches there. Devin did not miss her reaction, and felt a chill race up his spine.

"Bernard--" Gadget hesitated, "--what was that?"

The Chairmouse stepped back into view, tossing a bit of metal from paw to paw. "Damnedest thing. We just left the room for a few minutes and the bulb blew. Glass all over the floor--" Bernard shut up and bit his lip hard. Everyone fell silent.

"--but it couldn't be--" whispered Bianca.

"I think," Gadget spoke up, "we're all in deadly danger. And if there's anyone we can trust with our lives, you know who they are."

Far beyond the reach of telephones and vidscreens, a sleek-furred messenger raced through rough stone tunnels, knocked on a door that opened, and handed over a letter that hadn't been. He saluted and retreated; things were still done that way there.

The wax seal was broken and the hastily scribbled note was spread out on a rough wooden desk. Two figures stood over it, silent in their sorrow and worry. The smaller one pulled her red cloak closer around her shoulders. The taller one brushed her cheek, breaking her horrified stare and folding her to his chest as she crumpled the note in one paw. Her angry, fearful tears streaked the green-and-black crispness of his uniform as he stroked her head and shook his own.

"Friends and heroes pass away," she felt his deep voice rumble.

"Do we have to keep learning that?" she cried, and of course he had no answer but to hold her closer.

Artwork by Keith Elder

Button images by Keith Elder


	15. Chapter 15

****

Chapter Fifteen

Runner was up from bed, and against Devin's strict orders was stumping slowly and carefully around on his splinted leg with a makeshift crutch. He didn't have much to pack--just a few odds and ends, mostly odds. A bit of crystal he'd stumbled on in the darkness of the caverns where his parents and Gadget's friends had died--for a tree-dweller he had an odd fascination with things found in deep hidden places, especially stones. He hefted a marble that looked like a map of the world if you squinted at it just right--it went into his little pack as well. Approaching footsteps startled him from his illicit labors--he hightailed it back toward the bed as fast as he could with the crutch, but only made it halfway before Devin swung the door open. "Debbin, you care me haffa deff!!" Runner chided him.

"What are you doing?" growled Devin. He swept into the room and lifted Runner off his feet, depositing him on the lower bunk of the bed. He shook a finger at the young squirrel, who cowered with his ears back. "You'll end up crippling yourself for life that way! Gadget didn't drag you out of a hole in the earth just to have you--" Devin paused and thought for a while. "Jeez, I sound just like my father. Sorry to yell at you, Runner, Seeing you get up and walk around like that just scared me."

Runner relaxed and waved a dismissive paw. "Thag's ogay."

Devin frowned. "Huh?"

"Nebber mime."

They both turned to look as Gadget came in. "Hi, guys. Hey, good to see you awake and kicking, Runner. Not trying to stand up yet, are you?"

Devin coughed. "He hasn't set foot out of bed once yet. Right, sport?"

It was Runner's turn to growl. "Ny mame id Rugger, not spork."

"Spork. Isn't that one of those spoons with the little spikes on the end?"

"Quit it, you two," Gadget ordered. "So, ready to head out?"

Runner nodded furiously and almost rocketed off the bed, but remembered he was pretending to be a good patient. "Gaddit, we gone to leabe? Aww right! Ged out ob this nassy, hor'ble darg place."

Gadget's whiskers drooped. She winced and shook her head in sudden sorrow.

"Aww--" This time Runner couldn't help himself. He levered himself up on his crutch, twitching with concern. He hobbled to her, putting his paws to her tear-streaked face. "Sorry, Gaddit, dibn't mean id! I know you libbed here, you'n your frens. I sorry, dibn't mean 'a say id--"

"No, Runner, it's okay. It's not my home any more. I have to find a new one." She put an arm around Runner and walked him back to the bunkbed. She guided him down and sat beside him and Devin. "I wanted to talk with you about that. We have to decide where you go from here, too."

Runner kicked his good leg shyly, thinking for a while. "Go wherebber you go. You sabe my life...I helb you, grow up n' be a Reggue Ringer." He looked at her with pleading in his eyes.

"What's a reggue, and how do you ring it?" murmured Devin under his breath, but Runner's wounded scowl brought him around. "I'm sorry, Runner. I think you'll make a great Rescue Ranger. Of course we'll need to get you into a good Junior Auxiliary troop first--"

"I starded awready inna Juber Oxysilly," Runner burbled with excitement. "I jus nebber finish my las too years! Got badge fer swimmig, argery--"

"Argery?" Devin and Gadget asked in unison.

"Yeah, shooding with bode and awwows. Had all sortsa badges om ny unicorn. No, not unicorn--ufinorm. Can'd say id." Runner thwacked himself on his good leg in frustration.

"I know what you're talking about, Runner," soothed Gadget. "Your uniform. I had one when I was in the Junior Oxysilly--" Runner snorted as Gadget put a paw to her mouth. "Now you've got me doing it. Say, hold on a second." Gadget got to her feet and dashed out of the room.

Gadget stepped out into the early-evening light just outside the treehouse and surveyed the supplies and rubber-banded stacks of papers she'd salvaged from the wrecked hideout, all leaning against the railing. So often she'd sat out on the landing with the other Rangers, just shooting the breeze and relaxing. She smiled as she remembered the time Monty had come back from Russia with one of those little airline bottles of vodka and Dale had nearly stumbled off the edge. Now, in this light, the landing was just a place to pile her stuff before she left forever. She sighed and set aside a bundle of case files to get at the box of Dale's mementos. She found what she was looking for, and dashed back inside.

"What do you have there?" Devin asked as Gadget came back into the room with a garment bag.

"Yeah, whas inna bag?"

She began zipping it open. "Well, since we are going to Thorn Valley, and Thornies expect civilized animals to wear clothes, I thought this might be a welcome addition to your wardrobe, Runner." She pulled out a rugged blue shirt and matching slacks. The shirt's sleeves were almost totally covered in small embroidered patches--one sported the globe-and-mouse-ears logo of Rescue Aid, and another read "J.A. Troop 12, Anaheim". The patch stitched on the right pocket flap read 'Dale'. "I'm sure he would have wanted a J.A. member like you to have it. He was about your age then--it looks like it could be a good fit," Gadget encouraged the young squirrel.

Artwork by Keith Elder

His arm trembled as he reached out, but he pulled it back. "N-no," he shook his head firmly, though he was held transfixed by the uniform. "Woodn' be right."

Gadget turned the uniform over in her paws, baffled. "Whyever not? I mean, it might be a little spooky wearing a hand-me-down from someone...who..." Gadget started to choke up at the thought of Dale, but Runner smiled and shook his head.

"Thas nod idt. Alla these baggages--babbage--" Runner gritted his teeth good-naturedly, thinking hard. "--baadges. I only urnd dese--" he explained, reverently drawing an imaginary box around a dense section of patches on one sleeve of the uniform. "Couldn' wear dis ufinorm, Dale wazza one oo did the werk--" Runner gave the shirt a reluctant pat.

Gadget grinned. "You're an honest Auxie, aren't you? Well, tell you what. I'll just do some really careful work on the stitching and take the other patches off. We can pack them away and use them when we need to. Would you wear it if I did that?"

Runner nodded furiously, gathering up the uniform and testing the length of the sleeves against his arms. "Plees do jus' one ting, Gaddit--"

"Sure. My needle's at your command."

"Don' teag off dis one--" he continued, as he ran his paw over Dale's name.

Out on the landing, Gadget and Devin surveyed the sad pile of half-shredded papers and the few pieces of tools and equipment worth saving from the wreckage. Wind picked at the edges of the notes, rustling them like fall leaves.

"I know you expected a whole bunch of people to help you with this," Devin apologized. "Movers, real investigators, maybe someone from Grief Counseling. I'm sorry you only have me to help."

Gadget shook her head good-naturedly. "Devin, you've been worth ten times your weight in gold. I can't count the times that we Rescue Rangers could have used someone with your medical know-how. Besides, you're no slouch. I couldn't have done this much in a week by myself. And you've got a sort of--" Gadget searched for the word. "--a sort of decency about you that I could get really used to having around."

Devin grinned at her. "Well, seeing as we're the only available team to send to Thorn Valley, you'll get the chance." He put on a more somber, thoughtful look. "Have you given any thought to our cover story? We need a reason to be there. We can't just announce to the whole Valley that we're investigators from the Rescue Aid Society. Anyone who knows anything about those damned pills, or whoever used them, would clam up or just disappear."

Gadget grimaced. He had a point. "So what's our excuse for dropping in? If we say we're tourists, they'll smell a rat--"

"--and a mouse," Devin tacked on, not missing a beat. "Actually, you'd be surprised. Thorn Valley gets a fair amount of tourism--that whole 'animal Amish' thing, back to the earth and all. City mice eat that up. But tourists wouldn't be in the Institute's hospital as much as we need to be." Devin dug a thick book out of his medical bag and dropped it in Gadget's weary paws. "Personally, I keep in shape with this."

"What, like I didn't have enough to do? A little light reading?" Gadget hefted the book a few times and nearly gave out. "I won't have time for--"

"Oh yes you will," chuckled Devin. "Check the publisher."

Gadget flipped the book spine-up and saw the distinctive black-and-silver logo, recognizing it instantly (though not without a gasp of surprise). It was Thorn Valley's variation on the caduceus, the ancient symbol of medicine, with a broadsword replacing the staff, and trailers of a flowering thornbush in place of the twining serpents. The book was a study guide.

"Huh? 'Fifty Ways to Ace the TMAT?' What's a T-whatever, anyway?"

"Thorn Medical Admissions Test," explained Devin, grinning broadly. "Every animal-run vet college and teaching hospital requires it. And you should take it, almost as soon as we land in Thorn Valley."

"Me? Apply for admission...so you think--" Gadget puzzled it out, sitting down against the railing and leafing through the study guide. "You think I could pretend to be a medical student there?"

Devin rolled his eyes and growled in mock consternation. "Who said anything about pretending?" Gadget's eyes went wide at this--this outrageous suggestion, this unthinkable sudden change in her life he was talking about. She opened her mouth, intending to tell him how silly he sounded...but Devin sat beside her and took the book from her paws, gently yet firmly. "Gadget, do you know how strong you are?"

She had no answer for that. Is there ever one?

"What did you do for Runner? When you got him onto solid ground, what did you do?" Devin's was the voice of a teacher now, a guide. It threw her mind into high gear--where it usually stayed when her life wasn't a mess.

"I stabilized his neck, made sure he was breathing all right, checked his ribs and shone a flashlight in his eyes--"

"Why?" asked Devin, knowing the answer well.

"Making sure the pupils reacted to the light. They did. One sign there wasn't any major brain damage."

Devin smiled at her sure reply, but kept up the professional questioning. "What was your diagnosis? And what did you do about it?"

"Fractured left tibia, contusions and scrapes to left arm, possible concussion with the impact point just above the left eye. I set the leg, cleaned the scrapes, and put a cool compress on his head. About all I could do with limited supplies."

Devin sat back, crossed his arms, and clicked his tongue at her. "That's all any doctor could have done. You'll fit right in at Thorn Valley Institute, and you won't have to pretend you've got medical potential."

Gadget tried not to let it show too much, but her heart leapt joyfully inside her. Hell, it nearly leapt outside her, and wouldn't that have been a medical challenge? The Rangers had always treated her with respect and kindness, but between being busy and living so close together, a lot went unsaid. Devin's words had made her feel more alive again. "That is quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time," she breathed.

Devin waved the compliment off politely. "Just telling it like it is. If you do this, better get ready for lots of questions and long days re-learning things you obviously know. You'll just have a second job you can't tell anyone about--"

Gadget cocked a paw at him . "Gotcha. Med student by day, Rescue Aid Society spy--"

"--investigator--" corrected Devin.

"--by night. But--you really think I could make it as a doctor?"

Devin nodded decisively. "Top-notch. You'll be teaching me in a few months, mark my words." Much later, Gadget would think back on that casual compliment, and have a good laugh at the way things turned out. For now, she didn't exactly feel like laughing, but Devin's pep talk had steeled her to her course of action.

"Want to make that a bet?" Gadget poked a paw impishly at Devin.

"Sure. I'll bet you dinner at The Falls--best Chinese food in the Valley. Okay, the only Chinese, but it's killer. Deal?"

"Deal," she said, and they shook on it.

Change was coming on swift wings to bear her away from this old life and carry her into a new place with its own set of hopes and fears--closer to answers, but also to the heart of danger.

Button images by Keith Elder


	16. Chapter 16

****

Chapter Sixteen

The sound of typing echoed through a stony alcove, nearly drowning out the murmur and flow of a nearby underground stream. A skylight sent a long shaft of sun beaming down into the secluded grotto, dust motes dancing in its path as a bookish, intense mouse, just barely into his adult years, opened another leather-bound volume and looked over the spidery script inside. Nicodemus had left quite a few of the journals, and (to the young mouse's consternation) had also adopted the ancient art of calligraphy. The unfortunate reader squinted at one of the old rat's earlier efforts, and couldn't make heads or tails of it at first.

"June 26th, Year One After Escape," he slowly intoned. He had an eerie talent for imitating Nicodemus' voice, or so he was told--he'd just missed meeting him before the "accident" claimed his life. _After Escape,_ thought the mouse. _Numbered the years different, just to give me a headache, I bet._ He sighed and returned to his task, paws flying across the miniature keyboard. This minor technological marvel was a conglomeration of circuitboard and craftily carved wooden keys, its lettering worn to near-invisibility by long use. Its connecting cord was a more patchwork affair--Gadget would have recognized it for the sort of spur-of-the-moment job you always intended to go back and finish, but then decided to leave well enough alone.

The long tedious hours of typing were all stored up on what would have been a small hand-held personal computer for a human, as a matter of fact a top-of-the-line Palm Pilot brought back to Thorn Valley at considerable risk and much debate. As it was the only computer for many long miles around, and he was the only one who could use it, 'Palm Pilot' was the nickname most of Thorn Valley called him by, unless they wanted something from him.

"Rats have always dwelled in the shadows, on the edges of things. My truest hope is that we might one day move out of the dark and into the light of free open living, drawing on our own talents and resources. Not stealing, not nibbling away, but working hard and enjoying the fruits of our labors."

_Well,_ thought the amused mouse as he tapped and typed the words into his computer, _we're almost there. Didn't expect mice in your Plan, did you?_

From above, someone called him away from his work. "Timmy, sweetheart? Your mother and Justin are here!" The voice boomed through the workroom--an odd quality to its timbre and pitch would have told the average listener that its owner couldn't hear herself speak, but it sounded just like pure love to Timothy.

He reached up and pushed a button set cunningly into the stone wall with a brass plate, knowing that it would flash a light by the entrance above, where his girlfriend waited for him. "Thanks, Tina," he said quietly, and put a paw to the touch-screen of the small computer, saving his work. People always said he and Tina made an odd couple, but he thought they were pretty damn cute, himself.

Another touch of the paw, and the flat Palm Pilot computer swung on a mechanical arm, around to one side of his motorized wheelchair, locking into place. The chair swiveled automatically, starting on its pre-set course to the small hydraulic lift that would take him--chair, computer, and all--up to the main rooms of his hideaway. _Bet you Mom's stopping by with another casserole,_ Timothy mused. He didn't mind her checking up on him, but it struck him as funny that "Madame President" would still take time out of her busy schedule to bring dinner to her full-grown son. It was even funnier since he was one of the two best cooks in Thorn Valley, and was all but engaged to the other one. _Oh well,_ he sighed, the chair clicking to a stop at the top of the lift. _She could have worse excuses to visit. If she starts in asking again when I'm going to marry Tina and give her some grandchildren, I'll just tell her "next Saturday", and let her chew on that for a while._

As he trundled down the hallway toward his living room, he trailed his fingers on a postcard that was propped against the wall. It was one of the reasons his mother never came too far into his quarters. The front was a night-time view of the Arc De Triomphe, but Timothy knew the back bore a message: "Greetings, Love, and best of Luck from Paris! Martin and Theresa." Timothy shuddered, recalling in a flash all the sad and strange events that had driven a wedge between his mother and his older siblings. Theresa had even started spelling her name with an 'h'. While he had been just as shocked and hurt as his mother at the choices they'd made, he still thought of them as his brother and sister.

Shaking off regrets, he moved ahead to greet his visitors. Tina was the first to greet him, just inside the entry-way. "Finally got you out of that dungeon you work in," Tina admonished him, trying to sound like she didn't mean any harm. She unconsciously rubbed a paw along the patch of stark white fur on the back of her head, standing out against her otherwise light-brown complexion.

_She doesn't know I can hear the worry in her voice,_ Timothy thought, frowning. _What's got her so upset?_ He reached up and took her paw gently, stopping its nervous motion. "What's wrong, Tina?" He tilted his head up, making sure she could read his lips and catch the words.

She gripped his paw tighter. "It shows, doesn't it?"

"You were fiddling with your scar again. You never do that unless you've got a lot on your mind," he reminded her. She nodded and pulled at his paw, urging him forward. He threw a lever on his wheelchair and got it moving again. "So," he ventured, "I take it this isn't just another friendly visit from Mom and the step-rat."

"No, she and Justin sound worried. They're freaking me out."

"It isn't just the inter-species marriage thing?"

Tina snorted. "If that bugged me, they would have driven me nuts by now. No, I take it they've got a problem, but I couldn't drag it out of them."

In the living room beyond, Justin and his wife sat fidgeting on an uncomfortable couch. It wasn't an ugly one; it just wasn't animal-friendly. A relic from before the Thorn Valley days, it didn't have that trademark gap between the seat and back, or even divided seat cushions, so guests ended up sitting on their tails.

"How do you think they'll take it?" whispered Elizabeth, rocking back and forth uncomfortably--not just because of the couch, but because she knew she was about to ask quite a bit of her son.

Justin harumphed. His tail was longer and less flexible, so the couch was more of a pain to him. His sword--more a symbol of office now, though he kept it (and his skills) as sharp as possible--was getting in the way too. He tried to keep his voice low, but it always carried. "Oh, I think he'll adapt. If there's one thing Timothy and I have both learned," he tapped his eye-patch, "it's how to live with difficulties."

"Does that include me?" Tina stepped into the room.

Justin startled, nearly jumping to his feet. "How do you do that?"

"Easy. I read lips at twenty paces. The walls sometimes quiver when you talk, and that helps me fill in the gaps."

Timothy trundled up behind her, waving as he approached. "Hey, Mom! And I see you brought your bodyguard. What's up, Justin?"

Justin grumbled. "I'm going to chop your damn uncomfortable couch into bits with my sword, that's what's up." Elizabeth brightened a bit, elbowing him in the stomach. "Ow! Okay, that's not what we came to talk about, but you are going to need some new furniture, I think--"

"--if you like our idea, that is," Elizabeth broke in. "We have a big favor to ask."

Timothy cocked his head. Nothing too ominous so far. "Hopefully something besides computer work or cooking. My kitchen staff is still groaning about the twins' birthday party last month."

Justin and Elizabeth looked at each other, he grimacing and she shaking her head wistfully. "I wish it were that simple. You see, we're about to get some visitors, and the situation is, um--" Elizabeth searched for a worthy word.

"--screwed," finished Justin, with his usual honesty and directness.

_See what I have to live with?_ said the look Elizabeth gave Tina, loud and clear.

"We're stuck in a very nasty trap," Justin went on, "and these visitors could solve the problem or make it much, much worse."

"We'd like both of you to introduce them around and show them the ropes--but confidentially, we really need you to keep an eye on them." Elizabeth sighed, watching as Timothy and Tina glumly realized the ride they were in for. "There's a young squirrel named Runner--he's got a curious streak a mile wide, but he's a great little guy by all accounts. The other two are more trouble--they're from the Rescue Aid Society."

Tina did a doubletake. "Whoa," said Timothy, "All the way out here? Who died?"

"That's just it," Justin grimaced. "The Rescue Rangers did."

Artwork by Keith Elder

Tina squeaked involuntarily, putting a paw to her mouth. Timothy nearly forgot himself, pushing up with his arms and straining forward as if he might rocket out of the chair on his paralyzed legs. "All of them?" he gasped. "Dear God, what happened?"

"No one knows. But there's one ray of hope. Gadget Hackwrench is still alive," offered Elizabeth. Justin shuddered.

_Haven't seen him do that in a long time,_ Timothy noted. He sank back in his wheelchair, Tina wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"Gadget has been through a lot, but she's one of our visitors. Actually," Justin paused, "the word 'visitors' is a little misleading. They may be here for quite a while. And you have the extra space they need."

Timothy spread his paws. "My home is theirs. If Tina helps, we can get this place in shape post-haste."

"Sure thing." Tina straightened and began counting on her paws. "Three bedrooms, and Gadget will need some space for a workshop--that side cavern off the library would be just the thing--"

"--for that wine cellar Dr. Ages has been bugging me about," Timothy broke in. "But I suppose that can wait for now. I feel selfish even mentioning it. Poor Gadget..."

Tina patted his shoulder. "You're just thinking of your work, sweetheart. I know you'd do anything to help out."

"Right then, that's settled." Justin leapt out of his seat, glad to be free from the Couch of Torture. "We know you're taking on a lot at short notice, and we really appreciate it. I'm sure Gadget, Runner, and Devin will, too."

Tina moaned and put her head in her paws. "Devin? Not Devin Packard."

"Hide the good silver," Timothy grumbled.

"He's nothing like his parents. Bernard and Bianca assure us he's the soul of honesty and propriety." Elizabeth waved a calming paw at them. "We'd never ask you to do this if you had any little ones around here to take care of," she hinted, none-too-gently.

_If you want grandchildren, you should visit the ones you've already got in France,_ Timothy thought, but he knew better than to say it out loud.

"All good things to those who wait," Tina said. "There's the little matter of a wedding to take care of."

"Details, details," Elizabeth fumed good-naturedly. "Let's just get the current crisis over first. Oh, and Timmy, dear?" she tacked on as an afterthought. "There's something you should do as soon as your guests get here."

"Name it."

"Be sure to show them the drop-off back there, the one that leads down to your library now."

Justin rested a paw on Timothy's wheelchair. "We certainly wouldn't want them finding it the same way you did."

Button images by Keith Elder


	17. Chapter 17

****

Chapter Seventeen

Getting into Thorn Valley is no easy matter even when you're absolutely supposed to be there. Gadget and Devin felt like the first wave of Allied troops hitting the beaches at Normandy. Under that, the primary ingredient in their mixed emotions was a hefty scoop of guilt. They had every right to be there, and had gone all the way to the top for permission--yet now that they'd arrived, they wished they weren't bringing trouble.

The older members of this little expedition were lost in their thoughts, but Runner brought them back to the here and now with a youthful dose of the obvious: "Dis plaze smells."

He was right. It smelled like a fish market had collided with an apple orchard, next door to a stable. "I didn't expect it to be so--" fumbled Gadget, breathing it all in.

"--organic?" Devin chuckled. "It knocked me for a loop the first time I was here, too. It's not like the big city--you catch or grow your own food out here."

At the side of the flashing lake that drained off into rivers--one nearby and another across the waters--the pier was covered in the same camouflage netting that had baffled their vision from the air as the albatross brought them in. Teams of rats hauled huge empty nets onto wide-bottomed boats, while others unloaded their slippery, silvery cargo. Worksongs and shouts of welcome bounced around between the working teams. All about the newcomers, rats pushed wheelbarrows of grain sacks and pulled wagons laden with everything from melons to maize. What caught Runner's eye, though, were the tall spindly watchtowers dotting the lakeside, rats perched in their heights, scanning the skies. Devin saw Runner's thoughtful look and bent to whisper to him. "Eagles."

Runner was now officially confused. "Wha do a buncha old guys wih gwitars hafta do with Torn Vabby?"

"No, no. I'm not talking Hotel California, I mean real eagles. Big darned birds. They don't bother the rats any more, but they've learned they can get a free meal when they bring in the catch of the day. The guys stuck up in the towers can see 'em coming a mile off."

Gadget stepped out of the way of a messenger-rat with a large pouch slung over one shoulder. "I guess they're watching for other unwelcome visitors, too. Falling down on the job, though--they let us slip through," she grumbled.

"Who's unwelcome?" boomed a voice through the tumult. Tina had a habit of speaking loudly in busy places, just in case.

"Teeny?" Devin's head jerked around. He broke into a huge smile, grabbed Gadget's paw, and dragged her across the thoroughfare, nearly bowling over a cart-full of apples in his rush.

Timothy looked up at Tina from his wheelchair. "Looks like he remembers you," he started suspiciously, adding a little innuendo with his sign language.

"Oh, hush. We were just friends--Devin! Hey, compadre!" Tina rocked back on her feet as Devin bent to hug her.

Gadget raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're on friendly terms, at least."

"Teeny! Wow--you've really been working on your voice control. You never used to belt it out like that." Devin marveled at the changes he saw--and heard--in Tina. Two years had given her a new confidence and smoothed over some of the fears from her past. "I haven't seen you since med school!"

Gadget growled and gritted her teeth. "Is everyone here a doctor except for me?

"It feels that way sometimes, with everybody putting DVM and Ph. D. after their names. Don't worry, I'm not a doctor either," Tina reassured her.

"Tina wasn't a student--she was a research subject. Helped us out on a hearing loss study, for starters."

"Bet I've studied her more than you have, Doc. And I see you brought your own lady with you," Timothy said, looking thoughtfully from Devin to Gadget.

She and Devin regarded him blankly. Finally she spoke up. "Oh, no, we're not--involved, exactly." _Wouldn't be a bad idea,_ she admitted to herself. "Not at the moment."

_Well, she left the door open,_ Devin smiled silently.

"I'm Gadget Hackwrench. Thanks for letting us stay with you guys." "No problem," shrugged Timothy. "Least we could do for a Rescue Ranger."

Nobody said anything for a while.

"Jeez. Please forgive me. I wasn't thinking." Timothy pounded his forehead with one paw until Tina stopped him.

Gadget sighed. "No, please, don't feel bad. I still think of myself as a Ranger. I'm just going to have to learn more about myself. Hopefully, this is the place to do it."

"One ting for shure," Runner broke in, "iz not tha blace for clybing."

"Clyb--" Timothy frowned. _Does this kid have a really bad cold or something? He's gonna make sure the whole Valley gets a dose of it._

"Iz all flat," the young squirrel grumbled, gesturing around with his crutch. "No drees."

Timothy mouthed the words but they still didn't come together right. Devin coughed politely. "Runner has a little trouble making himself understood. Maybe a speech therapist can help him here."

"Yeah, mebbe sungbudy can straden oud my tung twubble."

Tina laughed and shook her head. "I have no idea what you're all talking about. I can understand him just fine. You're right, Runner, it is a little flat up here on the Plateau. If it's trees you want, we got 'em."

_Got to get rid of this crutch first,_ Runner thought, but it came out badly. "Gorra rib gid of ris kutch furg," he blurted. Tina goggled at him, fighting an involuntary urge to laugh out loud. This was not entirely successful. The others had the same trouble. Gadget patted him apologetically on one shoulder, unable to speak without her breath catching. Devin wrung his tail in his paws. Timothy wiped at his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Runner," Devin finally managed. "We don't mean to laugh at you, you just surprised us. Tina especially, I think."

"I'll say! I've never seen a pair of lips make shapes like that."

Runner scowled at his amused but sympathetic elders. "If I could talk straight for five seconds I'd chew you all out good," he rattled off, clear as day. His eyes went wide--so did everyone's--and he hurriedly choked out a few frantic tries at the next word. "Wha--glurg--lammit--"

"Come on, Runner, you can do it!" Gadget urged him on, praying this was it--that he could sort it all out right here and now.

Runner pursed his lips and shook his head. "Nod dis time. Nod dis time. Id comes and id goads." Gadget snapped her fingers wistfully, and there was a general clicking of tongues at the close call.

Devin beamed nonetheless. "You just watch. That's going to happen more and more often, I think, and eventually you'll work it out."

"And when you do, it'll be a Kodak moment. Right now, speaking of coming and going, it's time we checked out the ol' homestead." Timothy turned his wheelchair on a dime and started down a path lined with scrub brush and scraggly weeds.

"You'll have to forgive Timmy," Tina apologized. "He's really glad you're here, but he can be a little abrupt."

"Give him a few years and you'll be calling him crotchety," Devin said doubtfully.

Tina laughed him off. "No, no. Now, Dr. Ages--_he's_ crotchety. Come on down, or Timothy will eat half the food we cooked for you."

Gadget frowned. Today was a day for lots of confused frowns. Come to think of it, the whole week had been like that. "Down where? I thought we were already in Thorn Valley. I'll admit it's not so much like a valley--more like a mesa or a--"

"--Plateau," Devin nodded knowingly. "As close to Thorn Valley as you can get without actually being in it. Do you want to show them, Tina, or should I?"

Tina 'hmm'ed thoughtfully. "I'd almost forgot. You brought two first-timers with you. You do the honors."

Devin beamed and drew himself up straight, the long hours of travel (and some of the worry of what might be waiting for them) melting off of him. He cracked his knuckles and bowed with a little flourish, like a magician opening his act. "Ladies," nodding to Tina and Gadget, "and pint-sized pipsqueaks," he went on--

"--Hey, dob caw me a pibskeet--" Runner grumbled.

"--I'm proud to present to you that lovely little spot we've all come so far to see--except for Tina, of course, who lives here. That mysterious, luscious green, seldom-seen but often-talked-about hideaway, rat-kind's own answer to the French Riviera--" and here his tone grew much more reverent as he turned away and took a few quick steps to the overhanging lookout point that hid all beyond from view unless you were standing on it. "--Thorn Valley," he said. "Oh, my God, I'd forgotten how beautiful and strange."

Gadget, Runner, and Tina joined him on the promontory. His fellow travelers also joined him in his drop-jawed, wondering stare. It was the sort of view that the phrase 'special effects' only makes a glancing blow at.

Tucked away against the base of the towering cliffs, nestled like a jewel in its setting, a mystery wrapped in mist and shadows, was the Valley. It was a welcome sight to the weary visitors, but it did strange things to the vision. Gadget turned her head from side to side, trying to get a better look at it as she cautiously skirted the edge of the lookout point. "What the--I can hardly see where it starts and stops! Do you guys see what I mean?"

Runner nodded and whistled. "Thad's weerd."

"I told you it was a seldom-seen hideout," Devin chuckled. "From the air, or even from up this high, no one would give it a second look unless they already knew it was there."

Gadget started to sort out the crisscross of shadows below. "It's the way the place is shaded. Some of it, I mean. It's like a giant version of the camouflage netting on your docks over there."

"The mist from the waterfalls is another natural camouflage," Tina added. "And compasses don't work here. Magnetized iron deposits in the cliffs. It's as though this place were built stone by stone to keep it hidden."

"Aw dis id really neet," Runner broke in, "bud sumbutty said somting abow food?"

Button images by Keith Elder


	18. Chapter 18

****

Chapter Eighteen

If Thorn Valley were technically a nation, its national pastime would be food. When the Rats settled into the place, they were having a bit of an identity crisis. For them, cuisine had always meant making do with whatever they could steal. Cooking and the other fine arts were relatively new concepts for them, so as soon as they'd handled their worries about getting enough food, the emphasis switched to wondering what kind. Rats have strong stomachs, judging from the things they usually eat, so it's no surprise that peppers--from jalepeños to habañeros--became a staple. Protein was a problem--dairy products were out, and until the rocky, dangerous routes up to the Plateau were improved, even fish were scarce. The Rats never went in for eating other mammals.

But part of the Plan--the plan that an old dreamer named Nicodemus had held dear to his heart from the moment he breathed free air--was to make a living from the land itself. Nutrient-wise, that meant grain. And grain, to any reasonably civilized species, means bread.

Early efforts were nearly inedible. Mostly, this was because the problem was approached as a technical one, by an engineer. Arthur (bless his baking-impaired soul) cobbled together the water-power turbines under the Falls, re-founded the Forge, and tapped the nearby geyser which now bore his name--single-handedly saving the whole of Thorn Valley from freezing to death that first terrible winter. But as to his efforts toward bread-making...suffice it to say that everyone was getting really tired of eating oatmeal every morning.

As luck would have it--strange luck indeed--Timothy Brisby took a long walk off a short cliff and broke his back. He didn't adjust well to being wheelchair-bound, even with Tina's loving support, and had far too much time on his paws. Always a voracious reader, he'd read most of Thorn Valley's limited library twice over, and in desperation cracked open an old weather-beaten cookbook.

From then on, Timothy could most often be found with his arms elbow-deep in bread dough, and he developed a distinct smell of yeast about him. He tallied his successes and sometimes spectacular failures (including several minor explosions that spattered sourdough across the ceiling) on his miniature computer, and finally baked a tiny loaf of bread which didn't crumble when sliced.

In light of this little history, Timothy could be excused for feeling something akin to apprehension as he watched his new houseguests fall upon several larger descendants of that first humble loaf and devour them like a plague of locusts.

"This is sinful," groaned Devin. He was living up to his name as a packrat, packing away mass quantities of his hosts' pumpernickel. He slathered yet another slice with an obscene amount of margarine.

"Easy on the oleo," Timothy fretted. "We aren't exactly mass-producing it here. Not yet, anyway."

"Pardon my asking, Tim," Gadget paused from chowing down on a loaf of her own, "but how do you maneuver around well enough to lay out a spread like this?" It was a fair enough question--the long, low table sagged under the weight of the bread, accompanied by a cheddar-and-wild-onion soufflé, two containers of take-out noodles (very spicy) from The Falls restaurant, and a bowl of walnuts (half already cracked and inhaled by a certain young squirrel).

"Well, I can't take credit for the noodles," Timothy started.

"Yes, you can. It's your recipe, silly," Tina reminded him.

"The noogles are gweat, Dimathee."

Timothy cast an uncertain glance at Runner. "Thanks, I think. Can I quote you on that?"

"Gadget has a point," Devin nudged the conversation back on course, "I'd think the wheelchair would make cooking a little difficult."

Timothy waved them off. "Arthur and I--he's our Chief Engineer, you know--we went over every inch of this place making it wheelchair-accessible. No steps, just ramps. No tight hallways. The big stuff in the kitchen--the oven, the chopping block--it's all down at my level."

"They thought of me when they set this place up, too," Tina grinned. "In all the main rooms there's a signal light. Timmy can send me Morse code messages from just about anywhere in the house."

Gadget suddenly winced and put her fork back on her plate, soufflé untouched. Devin put a paw on her shoulder. "You okay, Gadge? I know it was a long trip here--"

She shook her head. "I'm not okay, not exactly. Tina, speaking of all the conveniences this place has, they put in plumbing, I hope?"

"Sure. Bathroom's the first tunnel on the right. Sort of an indoor outhouse, but--"

"--I'll manage." Gadget sprang to her feet and was gone in a flash, paws clenched over her stomach.

Timothy whistled in surprise. "She all right, Doc?"

Devin scratched his head. "She did have some strange trouble on the way here. You'd think with all the flying machines she's put together she'd be used to the ups and downs, but this time it was hell on her. She said she'd never been airsick before. Maybe it's some bug or other--"

_Great,_ thought Timothy. _I bet I'll pick up a good case of whatever it is._ He couldn't have been more wrong.

"I'll go check on her," Tina volunteered, and zipped off down the side tunnel before the others could thank her.

Behind the rough-hewn wooden door, water splashed into the pedestal sink. Gadget clung to its sides, an unpleasantly familiar, salty taste in her mouth. She was thankful that albatross travel only came with a light lunch. A voice came through the door, but she barely heard, sizing herself up in the rippled mirror above the sink. A frazzled, travel-worn, and worried mouse looked back at her. _I look like hell,_ she grimaced, her paws sliding down to her troubled stomach. _Don't be silly. It wouldn't even show yet._

Artwork by Keith Elder

"Gadget? You okay?" came the insistent voice.

"Just a sec, Tina," Gadget yelled back. _Oh, yeah,_ she remembered, turned off the water, and turned to open the door. "Jumpy stomach," she said more softly, now that Tina could see her face and read her lips. "Sorry I won't be able to enjoy your welcome dinner. It looks like you went all out."

"That's okay. We were just worried about you. We thought you might be coming down with something. We do get a lot of strange germs coming through here, what with the hospital and all--"

Gadget shrugged and chuckled once or twice, though it wasn't funny. "Well, I'm pretty healthy, all things considered. I just have the sneaking suspicion that I'm pregnant."

Button images by Keith Elder


	19. Chapter 19

****

Chapter Nineteen

"Wow, Debbin--Gaddit gonna be a mom?"

"We should have fixed up one more guest room," Timothy deadpanned. He wasn't being mean, it was just the way he sometimes handled difficult news.

Tina gave him a warning glance and shook his wheelchair for emphasis. "We have plenty of space, Gadget. Don't worry about that, for heaven's sake."

Devin bit his lip and threw his paws up in frustration. "I'm sorry it had to happen like this, Gadge. The signs were all there, I just should've--"

"--should have known?" chuckled Gadget, trying to put him at ease. _Please, dear God, don't let this freak him out too much._ "You're a good doctor, but that doesn't make you a psychic."

Devin felt a tug at his sleeve. He expected it to be Runner, but Timothy had wheeled silently closer as Gadget spoke. Timothy gingerly cupped a paw and Devin bent to listen to him whisper. "Say, Doc--"

"What? This isn't exactly the best time to--"

"--yeah, yeah. It wasn't you, was it?"

Devin was flummoxed. He fought down the urge to tip Timothy out of his wheelchair onto the stone floor. "No!" he hissed back, bristling under his lab coat. "If it was, this place wouldn't feel like a funeral!" _Easy, Devin,_ he reined himself in. _He doesn't know all that she's been through. Neither do you, for that matter._

Gadget coughed politely. Devin straightened, shuffling his feet a trifle guiltily. "Private conference over, you two?"

"Sorry, Gadge. Is there anything I can do?"

She nodded. "I really need to have a serious talk with a doctor. Want to check out my new workshop?"

Devin nodded and snagged his medical kit (as ever, close at paw). "That's the room just off the library, right?"

"Remember to watch your step," Timothy called after them as they slipped into the hallway.

Devin paused for a moment, making sure Gadget had gone on ahead. "Where Gadget's concerned, be sure to watch yours. I'm asking you nicely this first time, Timothy--don't spread rumors, or talk about her behind her back. You'll have me to answer to." An icy hint of politely veiled menace remained in the air as he disappeared from sight.

Runner whistled appreciatively. "Debbin meads whad he sez, Dimathee. Be good or he'll stig you wid a neeble or someting."

"Just a little touchy, isn't he?" Timothy made signs for Tina's benefit--_I still think he's the father._

Wistfully, Tina shook her head. "No. I don't think it was Devin at all. But it should have been."

Gadget was waiting for Devin at the chair-lift. As a matter of fact, she'd already ridden it down to the library floor. "Hey, Dev!" she called up to him. "The elevator can only take one at a time. I'll send it back up for you." She quickly pulled a succession of levers, and the platform rose to where Devin stood.

"Doesn't look all that sturdy, but it is a nifty gadget...Gadget." Devin gritted his teeth and Gadget rolled her eyes, groaning. _Bet she hasn't heard that one,_ Devin sighed, and tried to think of a word for thingamabob that wasn't her name. "Sorry! Sorry. I meant 'contraption'." He climbed onto the platform--apparently going down required only the pressing of one big red button, not the flurry of activity it took to get the thing back up. He pushed it. The lift descended without event, though it took Devin a second to get his legs back.

"I was a little wobbly, too, Dev."

"There aren't any handrails on that thing. As a doctor, and with your...condition, I'd suggest you find another way down." The levers Gadget had pulled didn't inspire confidence either. He looked warily at one marked 'Manual Override'.

Gadget saw the look and patted the lever. "Ain't that a kick? I've pulled a lot of manual override handles in my time, but that's the first one that was marked."

Devin frowned. "If the others weren't marked, how do you know they were the right ones?"

Gadget thought about it and grinned. "Well, I've never been blown up. Knocked up, well, that's a whole other ball of wax," she chuckled grimly, and took a first step up a set of sandstone ledges that led to a dark passage.

Devin looked her squarely in the eye, very serious. "So, do you want to talk about--"

Gadget put a paw to his lips. "Shh. Call it instinct, call it crazy--but up those steps, that's some space that Timmy and Tina have set aside for me. If I'm going to make big plans and decisions, I want it to be on my own ground. From some sort of center. Am I making any sense?"

"Plenty. You need some stability in your life."

Gadget's eyes glimmered with thoughtful amusement. "You're pretty good for that yourself."

Devin started to speak. _Careful, Devin. Last thing you want to do is play fast and loose with her feelings. She's still more scrambled than she realizes._ "Oh, I just watch out for people who are... close to me."

Gadget socked him playfully on the shoulder. "I nominate that for the Good Guys' Motto. Let's go see what Timmy and Tina think a workshop looks like." She and Devin followed the stairs, out of the realm of books and bookshelves and into the deeper shadows.

"Do you see a switch? Try over there."

"I don't see anything, it's dark."

"I found something, Devin. Is that--"

"I've got news for you. That's just my tail."

"Oh, sorry. Wait, here we go--"

Somewhere above, they heard the sound of an electrical arc. With a buzz and crackle, lamps sprang up and dotted the workshop. One was at a desk, and two brighter ones were bolted onto the workbench (one of these was on a swiveling arm, good for close work). The only other illumination flickered from a towering contraption that sent sparks crackling up between two long metal poles, as Devin and Gadget winced, shielding their eyes. "Well," offered Devin, "we got electric."

"Where the fur did they find one of those?" Gadget growled, walking over to the dangerous gizmo and slapping a switch. The behemoth fell mercifully silent and stopped sparking. "Those things always cheese me off."

"I'm sure they were just trying to make it feel like home," Devin murmured, waving away the blue and green after-images that danced around the room everywhere he looked.

"More like Transylvania." As Gadget's own vision cleared, she did see one thing that made her feel much more at home, and rushed to the workbench to see if it was a mirage. She put a hand on the large leather bundle and reassured herself it was real, then undid the buckle and attacked the contents like a kid on Christmas. "Oh, man, I think my opinion of this place just rose several notches."

Devin pulled a stool out from under the workbench and took a load off as Gadget held each and every one of her new stash of socket wrenches, screwdrivers, and chisels up to the light of the worklamp. "It does my heart good to see a lady who takes such an interest in tools," Devin said, glad to see Gadget back in her element a little. "I know I'd be lost without mine," he patted his medical bag.

"Oh, these are one step above tools, my friend," Gadget corrected him. "These are instruments. Drop-forged steel." She held one wrench loosely in her paw and banged it with another. It rang out with a bell-like tone, and Devin could tell she loved the sound. "Do you have any idea how many sets of cheap little screwdrivers I've snapped in half over the years? All of them had those crappy pink plastic handles, too. These aren't toys, no-sir."

Tucked into one pocket of the leatherbound toolkit was a note. Gadget spread it out on the bench and they looked it over. __

Dear Gadget:

Here's a little welcome present from Arthur, our chief engineer--you and he could probably teach each other a few things. He says the tools are yours to keep-and if you need any others custom-made, his fabrication shop is always at your disposal. When you get some time, you should talk to him--he has a pretty wild scheme for an irrigation project that involves airships and magnetism. He's followed your progress with flying machines, and highly approves.

Confidentially, he and Dr. Ages have been staking separate claims on the space that's now your workshop--Arthur wants to turn it into a hidden blimp hangar, and Ages wants to keep it walled in for a wine cellar. Ages will probably try to win your support for his plan by supplying you with actual product--there's a particularly good bottle of Year One Chardonnay in the in-box on your desk. Ages got better at wine-making these last few years, but with Year One he got lucky. Justin says if you need to take a day or two off and get blotto, it's understandable.

We were looking for a polite way to keep industry out of that corner of Thorn Valley completely, and your private workshop should do nicely. Don't worry about politics, though--that's our job. Just try to make the place your own as best you can, and if we can help you in any way, we will.

Welcome and good luck,

(signed)

Elizabeth Brisby-Justin and "just plain Justin"

p.s. Arthur might drop by in a few days to check out that monster-movie prop he calls a "Jacob's Ladder." He claims it soothes him, but thank God it has an off switch. E.&J.

"Well, Gadge, it looks like everyone in Thorn Valley wants to say hello--"

"Yeah, or get me drunk." She put her head in her hands. "I don't think I'll be imbibing much, though. I'm a scientist, and I know alcohol won't be good for the baby."

Devin was relieved she'd brought the subject up again. "Are you ready to have that serious doctor talk now?"

Gadget clicked her tongue, looking around at her new domain. "Yeah. I need to know some things, or at least hear them from someone I trust."

"Since it's you, I'm ready for some good, tough questions."

"Okay. Tell me--with all we can gather about the... attack, and the way I was pretty hurt when you first saw me--what sort of problems can I expect?"

Devin winced. "Where to start?" Gadget gulped nervously as Devin pulled out a notepad and well-gnawed pencil from a pocket of his lab coat. "Really, I don't think you're in bad shape, but I have concerns."

"You and me both. Get specific--please."

"All my concerns about the pregnancy are due to one fact. We don't know who the father is." _Though people are already guessing...Darn that Timothy!_ "That means no medical history--blood type, illnesses, even the exact species, despite the Thorn Valley connection--all blanks. Those all bring in possibilities that I don't like to even consider."

"Give me a worst-case scenario."

Devin growled and made a notation. "I hate it when patients ask for the bad news first. Okay, okay. Blood type--you know about Rh factors and that sort of thing, right?" Gadget nodded. "If some of the baby's blood components aren't compatible with yours, it can cause major complications both ways. Luckily, that's a long shot. Illnesses the father might have had--we know from the way you were attacked that the perps were probably pure-D nuts, which means they could have been into drugs or anything else. You haven't shown any signs of infectious disease, but we can't rule it out yet."

"And that could hurt the baby?"

"Yes. Anything that threatens your health threatens the pregnancy. And if things got really bad, it could affect your ability to have children later. As far as the species of the father, that's going to be of key importance to any medical trouble--"

"--and to figuring out who the bastards are who did this to me and my friends." Gadget smiled sadly and put a paw on Devin's arm. "I mean--my other friends."

Devin smiled back. _How could anyone think of hurting this lady?_ "Thanks for that, Gadge. Speaking of the Rangers--though it might be painful--there is one big unknown which might just turn out to be a plus for you."

Gadget straightened, attention focused even closer now. "You mean there could be some good news in all this?" Her ears perked up and her tail whacked the workbench excitedly.

Devin put his paws up in a calming gesture. "Easy, easy. Just imagine along with me for a minute--you've gotten past all the medical hurdles and in a few weeks the time comes--"

"--that soon? Well, I guess it would be."

Devin shrugged. "You're a mouse, after all. For a mixed-species pregnancy, say a few days more, a few days less. The delivery's fine, the baby's healthy, and it's the child of your attacker." Gadget kept her rapt attention, but looked more and more worried. Devin hated the necessity, but was getting to his point. "We run all the tests, figure out the species of the father, get a DNA match and lock the thug away for life. Your kid grows up knowing that the father was a rapist and murderer, and no matter how hard you try, part of you will always resent your child for what the father did. And the kid will have to live with that."

"I thought you said some of the news was good," Gadget choked out. Her eyes began to mist over, but she bravely faced Devin and anything else he had to tell her.

Devin leaned forward and grasped both her arms. "You asked for the worst-case scenario. Now stay with me. Remember how brave you've had to be." Gadget nodded, dislodging a couple of tears. _ This is the hardest thing I've ever had to do to anyone,_ Devin thought, his heart going out to her. "Now. You've got that picture in your head."

"Oh, yes I have," Gadget said, almost too softly to hear.

Artwork by Keith Elder

"Now imagine none of the bad parts--absolutely none of them--come true."

Gadget opened her eyes wider again in shock. "What--but they're coming true! You just laid it all out in a line, the plain and simple truth! How can you offer me hope when everything's set in place against hope?!"

Devin relaxed a little, wiping a worry-line of sweat from his brow. _Thank God. It's easier from here on out. Who would have thought that ignorance would become our fondest refuge?_ "Not everything is set against hope, Gadge. The Rangers are still your hope. Your poor scrambled memory with all its holes--and the Rangers."

Gadget shook her head, regrets and bittersweet recollections pouring in on her. "How can you say that? They're dead. They were my friends, but they're dead and there's nothing left of them but bones in a cold dark place, deep underground."

"That's just it. What if you're wrong?"

"I saw them. I touched them. Their blood was in my fur. I covered one of them with rocks when my paws were already in tatters. Why do you have to stir all this up? Why do you--"

"--no, Gadget. Listen to me. I know they died. But what if you're wrong and one of them did leave something behind?" Very slowly and gently, Devin extended a paw and laid it gently on Gadget's stomach. "Right here. What if one of them did?"

Somewhere way down deep, the light went on in Gadget's eyes again. Devin could almost see her mind leap from point to point making the right connections. Her jaw dropped. "Oh, Devin. I hadn't even considered--"

"--then it's probably a good thing we had this little talk."

Gadget took the paw away from her stomach as gently as Devin had put it there. She pulled him up off the stool and wrapped her own arms around him, putting her head on his chest. Without any warning, tears of relief sprang to her eyes, and she began to heave with little sobs. Devin carefully folded his arms around her. He just held her for a few moments, then gave in and lightly brushed her head-fur with one paw. "We're just getting started, Gadge. But we have to hold on to hope."

"Thank you, Devin. Thank you so much for helping me believe that this can turn out all right." She gave him another grateful squeeze and straightened, looking him straight in the eye and wiping her whiskers. At that moment--never mind the tears drying on her cheeks--she looked like she could take on the world, win the fight, and then ask for a rematch.

_This is how I'll always remember her,_ Devin decided, traced a pawpad under her chin, and gave her the sort of kiss that hadn't been seen since movies were in black and white.

Button images by Keith Elder


	20. Chapter 20

****

Chapter Twenty

In another sort of workshop—Gadget and Devin would have been horrified, had they known just how close by it was—a rat named Turner lay very still and listened to the blood pound in his head. It was the first thing he'd become aware of—consciousness had returned grudgingly, a little at a time.

At any rate, he wasn't looking forward to it. At least in his dreams he had been alone with his muffled thoughts, at peace and unable to hurt anyone. Waking up meant he'd soon be dangerous again, and he fought it with all his will. He thought of black empty space, of endless sleep, but instead the world poured back in on him.

And he was missing something.

"Ah! I was wondering when you'd come around. How do you feel?" The vague form of a doctor-rat swam at the foot of the hospital bed.

Artwork by Keith Elder

__

Come a little closer and I'll strangle you, Turner thought, his paws clenching and unclenching in their restraint straps. "You've opened up my skull and gone fishing in it. How do you think I feel?"

"A bit disoriented still, I suppose. And your head—"

"It feels like it's coming apart!"

"That will pass." The doctor pursed his lips and looked at his subject thoughtfully. "But it's good to see you're angry. Keep that going. Lovely, beautiful thing, anger. When it's pointed in the right direction."

Turner glanced around at the room. He couldn't turn his head, as it was still strapped down. The place was pretty much what he'd expected—the walls were padded and the light was a uniform glare. He'd heard stories and whispers from the others—not everyone came out of these rooms in one piece. Some turned on themselves and ripped themselves to shreds. But getting into one of these rooms—and living through the treatment and recovery—that was part of their Plan. That was how they always put it. Turner shivered with disgust, the closest thing to fear he was still capable of feeling. _That they would profane and twist even that—taking Nicodemus' dream apart step-by-step—dear God, what monsters am I living with?_

The doctor laid his paw on a syringe with a long needle from a stainless-steel tray and held it up. It glinted in the harsh light. "I suppose you're wondering what this is for."

"Knock me out. I don't want to look at you. Just let me rest again."

"First things first. This isn't a sedative. I am going to take this needle—" the doctor drew his arm back. "—and plunge it directly through your right eye into what's left of your brain. You are going to hold perfectly still or it might be even worse than you think." The doctor's expression did not change as he said this. He reached over with his free paw and undid the strap holding Turner's head down. Turner whipped his neck around and tried to bite the doctor—he pulled back too quickly. "If you turn away, or show the slightest bit of fear—I will press the plunger on the syringe. What's in it will scramble your brains far worse than anything I did with a scalpel, I promise."

Turner sneered and faced the doctor. He did not quiver or plead. The needle was big enough that he could almost look into it. "Get on with it," he growled.

The doctor jabbed the needle forward, a splinter of steel streaking toward Turner's eye—and stopping scant millimeters away from it. Turner blinked and felt an eyelash brush the needle. The doctor put the syringe aside, smiling with satisfaction. "Good. Tell me—what did you feel when I was about to put a hole in you?"

__

For so long I've been lying to these creatures, these villains, pretending I was one of them, Turner nearly sighed with relief. _At last I get to tell one of them just a tiny bit of the truth. _"Hate. Sheer, cold hate. If I could have turned that needle on you, nothing would have stopped me."

"But you weren't afraid, right?"

Turner thought hard, but could barely come up with even a memory of fear. "Not one bit."

"Good. That was the whole point behind this surgery, anyway."

__

Yes, Turner turned it over in his mind. _I hate you for what you've done to me, even if you did think I wanted it. But I'm not afraid of you. I'll never be afraid of anything ever again. And that will probably kill me_.

Gadget's new bed was much more comfortable than Turner's. It was set into the wall of a small sandstone hollow just off one corner of the workshop, a retreat within a retreat. One of its rare features (for Thorn Valley, anyway) was a thick door, carved out of the surrounding stone but balanced delicately enough that shutting it was easy. Its massive hinges were on the inside, its deadbolt recessed so far into the stone that once thrown it couldn't be reached with any tool short of a jackhammer. All the same, Gadget made up her mind that she'd spend as much time out of her "inner sanctum" as she could, turning to it only in times of rest or desperate need.

As she stretched out, really relaxing for the first time since she set foot back on solid ground again, she recalled an old saying of Mark Twain's that always helped her in risky situations: "Ships in the harbor are safe, but that's not what ships are for." _Yes,_ she sleepily decided. _This is a safe harbor, but there's plenty on the outside that needs my attention. Devin, for starters…_ She sighed contentedly. Tomorrow would be busy--she planned to head straight for the hospital to get the ball rolling on vet school, and to explore as much of the Valley as she could. Despite Elizabeth and Justin's hopes that she could stay out of local politics, she could already feel herself being sucked in--the Justins, Arthur the engineer, and Dr. Ages all needed a visit. Despite all that, she felt glad to be in a warm, soft bed with people nearby who cared about her…one, in particular, who cared about her much more than she'd imagined. The fur on the back of her neck riffled up in goosebumps again at the memory of that kiss Devin had planted on her. _Yowsers!_

Plenty to do tomorrow. Not all of it bad, by any stretch. But the second-best thing she'd do today, she decided--tallying up the little surprises and discoveries the day had brought--was to get some sleep. The traffic in her head continued to zoom around, but she gave up trying to direct it. Soon there were only a few lone thoughts running near-empty highways, all on cruise control, and she was out.

__

…they were pushing her out the door.

(Gadget turned uncomfortably in her sleep, kicking her feet, just as she had when it happened.)

__

Moving at all was torture. She did not want to go out there. There were more of them, waiting. Dear God, let them just kill me. They've done things to me I don't even have a name for.

__

Gadget stumbled from one horror into another as the laughing shadows shut the door. She was in the main room of the Ranger hideout now--nowhere to hide out from anything. A ring of hungry, merciless rats glared at her, all advancing with obvious intent to inflict more pain and shame. I don't have much left for you to take, _she would have said if words had any more power. Her threats, then pleas, and finally wordless cries had won her nothing but further abuse._

The rats suddenly stopped and gave way to one from the back of the room--this one came trailing sharp claws on the furniture, shredding it open with a casual air. He was big, and was one of the few in the black-and-gray uniforms… shriveled and furry things slapped against his belt as he moved. When he was close enough, Gadget saw that they were ears. Lord, lord, don't let him take mine, _Gadget mourned silently. She pulled the remains of her tattered workshirt closer around herself._

Treading on a few footpaws, and not seeming to care whose, the uniformed rat muscled his way to the front of the pack. Some of the others muttered under their breath--"He'll kill her sure enough." "Not before he has his bit of fun, he won't…" --but he glared around at the circle and they fell back meekly.

His voice was like oily ice as he sneered and bared his teeth. "So--Gadget Hackwrench. You don't look so proud and mighty now." He stepped closer to her and flicked a razor-point claw up under her chin, forcing her eyes up to meet his. She didn't dare move. "Such a pretty thing for a mouse. It's too bad I didn't get to you earlier." The voice went on in its bone-chilling calmness, but Gadget nearly gasped in spite of herself as she really looked at his eyes for the first time.

They were the eyes of someone who was fighting back the urge to break out in tears.

What the hell? _Gadget barely had time to think, as Turner grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall--just hard enough to look painful. It _did_ hurt, but not nearly as bad as it could have._

"Scream--" he pleaded with her under his breath. She was quick to comply, half out of hope that there was a way out of this hell, and half out of sheer terror. "That's better!" he shot back over his shoulder for the benefit of the watching, waiting pack. "You're no fun if you don't fight."

What is he doing? _Gadget's mind reeled. _Is he telling me not to fight? I couldn't do that, couldn't just let them-- _She struggled and shrieked again, weary and confused. The rat pinned her closer to the wall and pushed a careful paw against her face, stifling her cries. She nearly gagged when she realized he'd shoved two bitter pills into her mouth. _Is he offering me a choice? Is it poison?

__

"Live to fight," he urged her quietly. "Get ready for a stage punch--" Gadget swallowed nervously but nodded under the paw, barely getting the pills down.

Turner staggered back suddenly, pulling the paw away from her mouth and cradling it. "She bit me!" he growled in mock fury. Some of the ratpack chuckled and whistled as Gadget recoiled against the wall.

"Better take some of the starch out of her before it's my turn with her," one of them called jeeringly.

"I'll do you one better," snarled Turner, and lashed out at Gadget with a vicious right hook. It brushed Gadget's whiskers as it stopped, and she jerked her head back in perfect timing. She collapsed in a heap, trying to keep from trembling.

A chorus of complaining voices drew near--"I wanted her awake when I--" "She's out cold!" "--spoiled all our fun." "Might as well get out of here, now--"

Please,_ Gadget prayed, _don't let them do anything else to me while I'm passed out. _She waited, and could only listen as the rats kicked the place apart in frustration. Every now and then one stepped on her or threw debris over her. She gritted her teeth and used all the strength she had left just to hold still and wait as the pills sent her into an uneasy dream of peace._

Gadget rocketed out of the dream and sat bolt upright. She flung aside the covers and rushed out of her new room as fast as she could.

The next thing Devin knew, someone was waking him up creatively--no easy task. When Devin packed it in for the night, it took enough shaking to register on the Richter scale to get him going. Whoever it was had a novel approach--he had to wake up and kiss the girl just to get a breath of air. "Whoosh!" he exclaimed after Gadget let him go. "Wake me up like that anytime. Speaking of time, what time's it? Time for rounds? Oh, wait. We aren't --yawn-- at the hospital--"

"Shh!" Gadget cut him off. "Devin, I know we all need our rest, but I had to come tell you. I had this dream, it was a bad dream but I think I know now and you have to listen."

Devin blinked sleepily. "Are you related to the Micro-Machine Man? My ears don't go that fast."

Gadget waved her paws, calming down. "Okay, okay. Remember that stash of medical supplies and stuff we found back at the hideout?"

Devin thought for a second. "Yeah. That was strange. It was like a gift out of nowhere. Sure did help with you and Runner, probably saved you from getting your paws infected--"

"--it wasn't out of nowhere. I think I just remembered someone who saved my life."

Button images by Keith Elder


	21. Chapter 21

****

Chapter Twenty-One

Devin sat in the waiting room, leafing through an ancient issue of Valley Times and watching an expectant soon-to-be father rat wearing a groove into the tiled floor with his pacing. _If Gadget has anyone doing that for her when the kid's born, it'll be me, _he thought in amusement. _Actually, I'll be assisting, if it's okay with her._

He knew that what Gadget must be going through at the moment was the mental equivalent of giving birth. His own experience with the Thorn Medical Admissions Test had been an absolute horror. He had snapped five pencils out of sheer anxiety, sweat nearly soaking his answer sheet. They had to pry the thing away from him when time ran out because he'd only had time to check his answers twice. The fact that his score had turned out to be not only good, but nearly legendary, didn't make up for the sheer hell he'd gone through. Number 2 pencils still made him itch.

A side door opened and the expectant father nearly hit the ceiling. When it turned out just to be Gadget, he tore at his fur and paced all the more nervously. Devin leaped up himself. Gadget, a little wobbly, rushed to Devin, hugged him for a moment, then pulled free and slammed herself down in the chair next to him, head in her paws. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" he ventured, putting a paw on her shoulder.

Gadget looked up dizzily, almost as if in a trance. "What's a fetlock?"

Devin worked his mouth. It had been forever since anyone had asked him that. "Excuse me?"

"Fetlock. It's on a horse, but where?"

Devin looked at her quizzically, but answered. "On the back of the leg, above the hoof."

Gadget groaned, looking at the floor again. "I missed it! Grrr!! It was one of the first questions and I couldn't think about anything else, all through the test."

The door Gadget had come out of swung open again, and the pacing father-to-be twirled around excitedly. A large nurse-rat popped her head out the door. "Miss Hackwrench?" she called. The disappointed fellow snapped his pawpads in frustration.

"Gadget, Hackwrench, Gadge--" Gadget growled through clenched teeth at the nurse.

"--anything but 'Miss'." Devin finished for her.

"Whatever," the nurse went on. "We have your exam results ready for you."

"How--how did I do?" Gadget stammered. Devin stood at her side, ready to catch her if the news was too good or too bad.

The nurse looked from Gadget to Devin and back. "Better than he did. I'd say it's a safe bet you're going to vet school." She ducked back inside the door, but was back in a second. "Hey, you," she addressed the pacing rat, who swallowed but nodded. "Congratulations. It's a girl."

The new father let out a whoop of sheer joy, then stopped pacing, breathing heavily, paw over his heart. Devin patted him on the back roughly. "Good job. You too, Gadge!" he beamed and threw his arms around her.

"I made it?" she said, disbelieving. "Oh, thank God." She leaned heavily on Devin, who guided her down to one of the chairs and sat by her, twitching with pride. "Devin? I just have to say--of all the things we've learned or taken from humans, standardized tests have to be one of the most evil."

Devin nodded. "Yep. Those, and waiting rooms. Let's get out of here."

"Yes, let's. Right now."

After a few hours in the depths of the cavernous hospital--with real caverns, even--Gadget and Devin blinked at the sunlight as they stretched out on the hill beside the waterfall pool.

"Nice place," yawned Gadget. It would be so easy just to go to sleep in the sun, listening to the tumbling sound of water on the rocks--

"I could spend hours here myself. Matter of fact, I have, on my rare visits."

A thought crossed Gadget's mind. "So, why didn't you stay? I haven't seen much of the hospital yet, but it looks state-of-the-art to me."

Devin 'hmm'ed thoughtfully, staring up at the clouds. "If I weren't into anything but medicine, I'd be here in a heartbeat. But being a doctor here is a little bit like being a monk. Long hours, the isolation--" He paused and smiled. "I'm just here now because I have someone special to watch out for--" his smile fell a bit, "--and several someones to bring to justice for what they've done to her."

Gadget rolled over in the grass, chin on her paws. "You do make me feel special." She poked him in the ribs playfully with her tail, laughing as he jumped in surprise. He put a paw out and gave her a little shove, sending her rolling sideways down the hill into the pool. She rose slowly out of the shallows, soaked to the bone, giving Devin a dirty look that melted as soon as he shucked off his lab coat and leaped in after her.

"Silly!" she chided him. "We can't go to Elizabeth and Justin's place looking like this!" Devin ducked his head under again and squirted water at her as she shielded her face, laughing. "You're a regular water-rat, Dev!"

"People accuse me of a lot of things," Devin said with mock solemnity, "but never of being regular."

"I'll agree with that. We're still dripping wet--"

"I knew you needed to wash that test off of you. And a change would do us both good."

Dried and rested, Devin and Gadget headed up the path toward the cliff-side dwelling of Thorn Valley's leaders. Like so many dwellings here, the entry-way was lit by small lights even during the day--but as they stepped inside, they noticed someone had taken the pains to anchor dozens of pinpoint lights on the rounded ceiling of the cavern. It was like stepping into a perfect starlit night--Devin watched Gadget's eyes sparkle at the sight, and couldn't wait to get her out under a real sky full of stars.

A welcoming voice broke his train of thought. "Gadget! Devin! Come on in. What do you think of the place?" Elizabeth stood at the inner door, Justin towering behind her as usual.

__

That's all right, decided Devin. _I'm sure some people think Gadget and I are an odd couple ourselves._

"Mrs. Justin! I think it's beautiful! This is a planetarium, isn't it?" Gadget spun around, admiring the effect.

Justin nodded. "It took a lot of work, but Arthur had fun with it."

Elizabeth turned toward him. "He can do anything he puts his mind to, except cook." She and Justin shared a shudder. "Listen to me go on. Don't let us keep you waiting--"

"Come in and tell us about the test," Justin encouraged them. That made Devin and Gadget shudder at shared memories this time. They followed Justin and his wife deeper into the caverns, Gadget giving one reluctant glance back at the twinkling lights.

The "real" inside of the dwelling wasn't as showy, but it was definitely comfortable. The rock floor of the living room was covered with multicolored rugs, and tapestries decorated the wall. One caught Gadget's eye, because the characters embroidered into it were so familiar--a younger Timothy, his sisters Cynthia and Teresa, and his brother Martin, all with travelling packs on their backs. From the awed and delighted looks on their faces alone, it was easy to see that the picture was one of them all seeing Thorn Valley for the first time.

"That's good stitching," Devin remarked. He'd sown up enough of his fellow creatures to recognize good detail work. "Is this yours, Elizabeth?"

"Justin's actually," Elizabeth admitted, Justin coughing modestly as he pulled up a chair and she settled into a couch--one of the newer ones with the gap built in for users' tails. "Ever since he lost the eye, he's had a different view of things. He doesn't show his work much."

"I have a problem with depth perception," he explained. "I still think the perspective is screwy," he whispered to Elizabeth. "And I should have put the twins in, even if they weren't around then. It would be good to show them all together."

"I think it's wonderful," Gadget assured him, sitting down on another couch close by Devin. "It looks just like the children--well, like I'm sure they looked back then. How are they? The other ones, I mean. Timmy seems to be doing fine, even if he is a little…"

Elizabeth laughed. "…difficult? Well, he worries too much and doesn't get out enough, since the accident. Houseguests will be good for him."

"Telling you about the other kids will take a while. Half of them are more grown than we'd like, and the other half are still underfoot," Justin harumphed.

"Well, start at the top. How are Martin and Theresa?"

Elizabeth held herself back but still sounded defensive as she primly said the name. "Teresa. Only she and Martin spell it or pronounce it with the 'h'." Justin held her shoulders protectively.

"I take it they sort of turned into the black sheep of the family. What did they do?"

Justin clicked his tongue. "Nearly got themselves killed, for starters."

Elizabeth sighed. "You're bound to hear a lot of whispers. I don't like to discuss it much, but I'd rather you got it straight from us. There's a good chance it might even be tied in with your trouble."

Gadget started forward, all concern. "I certainly hope they didn't run into the same lunatics that hurt me so bad and k--" Her voice stuck in her throat. Devin reached for her paw and held it tight.

Justin nodded solemnly. "Martin and Teresa are all right. But the bunch they tangled with--everything we've heard about your attackers fits all too well. Rotten to the core."

Elizabeth bit her lip and started. "We were sending out scouts--all over the place. One day, Thorn Valley's going to get too crowded, and we'll have to build a second colony. One possible site was deep in the forests of Canada…beautiful place…" she trailed off, shaking her head.

"One worry was an abandoned river port built by humans," Justin picked up. It was on the far edge of the land we wanted, but there were signs someone might be trying to start up operations there. As it turned out it wasn't humans after all, but… anyway, there was a rare plane flight over the area, and we wanted pictures. Martin and Teresa stowed away."

"The plane went down," said Elizabeth, getting a far-away look in her eye. "Shot down, as it turns out. It was rats at the port, of all things! We first thought it might be some splinter group that broke off from the Rats of NIMH a long time before Thorn Valley was established."

"Only a couple of the original group that escaped from NIMH are unaccounted for, though. Close friends of mine, probably dead," Justin said, half to himself. "And I could never believe they'd shoot down a plane."

"Wherever they were from, they had some vicious defense set up. The pilot--human of course--was killed in the crash. Martin and Teresa were alone out there for a long time. Too long." Elizabeth shuddered.

"Liz and I went up there ourselves to try tracking them down, but we had to give up when bad weather set in. Later on, we found out we didn't get anywhere near them. A year later, Rescue Aid in Quebec picked up a faint signal--Martin and Teresa had been trying to get word to us all that time. Turns out they had been hiding from those screwed-up characters who took over the port, not to mention doing hit-and-run sabotage work on their supplies and transportation. Certainly saved our bacon."

Devin frowned. "These port rats--they were in Canada. What real harm could they do up there?"

Elizabeth laughed bitterly. "They weren't planning on staying there. They were an invasion force, weapons and all. Someone's working for them that must be as good with machines as our Arthur. And that one pilot aside, they weren't planning on tackling humans. They wanted Thorn Valley for their own, and that's not just a guess."

"Martin and Teresa put their lives on the line to save everyone in Thorn Valley from death, enslavement, or worse," Justin said with a hint of pride in his voice. "You've seen first-hand what our mutual enemies are capable of, Gadget."

Gadget wriggled her whiskers uncertainly. "What makes you so sure they were the same ones who killed my friends? These port rats sound like nasty characters, but you should have seen my home. It took some sick minds to go that far."

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. "What worried us most about the letter from Rescue Aid when we heard you were coming here--"

"--besides the news that you'd lost your friends and been badly hurt yourself--" Justin added.

"--of course. We want to help you any way we can--but what made us sure was the bit about the broken lightbulbs. The port was full of them."

Gadget looked down, closing her eyes tight. "It's the same guys, all right," she nodded mournfully. Devin hugged her, grimacing at the memory of her desecrated home.

"That seems to be their trademark," growled Justin. "They'll shoot down planes, use power turbines, siphon off gas and use any human-made technology they can get their hands on, if it furthers their cause. But they won't use electric light--it really sets them off their collective rocker."

Gadget cocked her head. "You learned all this from Martin and Teresa?"

Justin nodded. "That, and an investigative squad we sent up later. The port rats knew their cover was blown, and got out of there. We didn't expect to find much in the way of plans or documents, but someone left us a gift package--"

Devin gasped in surprise "--Gadget! Just like Turner left the medicine at your hideout! I bet it was him this time too!" Elizabeth and Justin looked at him in blank disbelief.

"Turner? Where did you hear about him?" Justin asked, perking up with concern and a little distrust.

Gadget spoke up. "You probably think he's the worst of the bunch, but he's not. Really, he's not. He saved my life, kept me from being r--" her words ran together and she waved her paws in frustration.

Devin held her paw, feeling the rage and regret course through it. "Easy, Gadge. It's okay. We're all friends here."

Gadget nodded and continued. "If it weren't for Turner, I would have been raped again, maybe killed. Ten to one he's doing all he can to trip up the others, or get you all the information he can. What do you know about him?"

__

Or think you know, Devin almost added, but wisely bit his tongue.

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose thoughtfully. "Apparently, he's the second-in-command. Big bruiser, but lightning-smart. Always biting someone's ear off--he keeps 'em around his belt. We'd never heard of him before Martin and Teresa crossed paths with him, and he's not young enough to have been born outside NIMH, but that's all we have."

"If we had more of the story first-hand, it might help us understand these sickos," reasoned Devin. "Do you think Martin and Teresa could tell us more themselves?"

Elizabeth shook her head sadly. "No. They're long gone now. France, the last I heard." She sniffled. "We were going to be a real family again, all of us together--" she shut her eyes and turned away against Justin's side.

Justin grimaced. "But we screwed up. Bad. We laid the guilt on thick and drove them away."

"Guilt?" Gadget scratched her head. "What for?"

Regret colored Elizabeth's slow reply. "When they came back, there were three of them. Martin, Teresa, and a pretty little mouse-girl named Sophie. Their daughter."

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. "Jeez," breathed Devin. "That's--I don't know how I'd feel about that."

"We were all wrong from the start, the way we tried to handle it," Elizabeth went on. "We said they should give Sophie up, let another family here in the Valley raise her. We told her that going on as they were, it would tear the family apart--that they'd be shunned by almost everyone here, no matter what sacrifices they'd made."

"So," finished Justin, "they took Sophie and left. They swore they'd never set foot in the Valley again." He started to tear up, his voice hoarse. "Heroes--that's what they were. We couldn't afford to lose them, but it's our own fault."

Devin clicked his tongue in sympathy. "There's always time. Maybe you can all forgive each other for being yourselves. I hope so."

__

Now, that's one messed up family, Gadget raised an eyebrow. _Around every corner is a relationship landmine. Maybe this is what politics does to people. _She ventured another question, praying this one had some happier answers. "Elizabeth, where's your other daughter, little Cynthia? I haven't heard a thing about her since I got here."

Elizabeth and Justin looked at each other, brightening. The sadness from telling Martin and Teresa's tale evaporated from them. Justin boomed out laughing, batting a paw at Elizabeth's shoulder, and Elizabeth launched into a fit of the giggles. Gadget looked at them as if they'd both gone crazy. _We got a pair of loons running this place._

Elizabeth put a calming paw on Justin's arm and he wiped the corner of his good eye, getting his breath back. "I know, I know," Elizabeth apologized. "Please, don't think we're both terribly silly, it's just that--Justin, you tell her. I can't keep a straight face and she won't believe me."

Justin whistled to himself. "Cynthia's not so little anymore. Half the time when people meet her, they think she's a short rat, not a mouse. Short, but thick through the middle--"

"--and stubborn as the day is long," tacked on Elizabeth.

Justin nodded in agreement. "She's young still, but she knows how to dig her heels in. And she's cracked more than a few heads that needed it--"

"--and more than a few hearts," Elizabeth broke in again.

Gadget felt like she was missing something. "What? Is she getting into fights at school?"

"Not any more," murmured Justin. "She's got my old job. She's Captain of the Guard."

Button images by Keith Elder


	22. Chapter 22

****

Chapter Twenty-Two

"You gave up your job?" Devin goggled at Justin.

Justin waved a dismissive paw. "No, I gave up one title and got another. First Husband is job enough for me," he winked at Elizabeth. "It's Cynthia's job to make sure nothing dangerous gets past Thorn Valley's borders." Justin's expression fell a bit. "It's security problems on the inside that keep me busy."

"Justin means the assassination attempts," Elizabeth explained. Devin and Gadget looked at each other and shuddered again.

"You're kidding," started Gadget, but bit her tongue as Elizabeth threw back one side of her trademark red cloak. From her left shoulder nearly to her elbow, a long thin scar trailed down, nearly white fur showing against the rest of her reddish-brown.

"It happened in the middle of a speech. I was presiding over the opening of Timothy's new bakery—preside, that's what presidents do, after all." She covered her arm again, Justin taking her paw in his. "I was going on about production numbers, I think—when ZZZZIP!" Devin and Gadget nearly jumped off their couch.

"Don't scare me like that!" Devin looked down at his paw—he'd pulled out one of the whiskers he'd been fiddling with. He rubbed his cheek. "That smarts…"

"Sorry, sorry. I'll leave out the sound effects," Elizabeth promised guiltily. "That's the sound that I heard just as I was turning around. The next thing I knew, Justin tackled me and pushed me away from the podium. A couple of the windows shattered behind us, but I guess the sniper gave up after that."

Gadget looked at Elizabeth in disbelief. "Sniper? But—who would want—" She slapped her forehead and nodded. "Okay. Jeez, these guys really get around. How come we didn't hear anything about that from Rescue Aid?"

Justin cleared his throat cautiously. "We didn't tell them. We considered it an…internal matter."

"Until recently, that is," Elizabeth corrected him, narrowing her eyes. He shrugged.

"I wish we had known. You were right about one thing, for sure—" Gadget gestured to Elizabeth's arm. "They do have someone working for them who's awfully good with machines. Weapons in particular."

Devin drummed his pawpads thoughtfully on the armrest of the couch. "It was a needle gun, wasn't it?"

Elizabeth's eyes went wide. "How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess—that, and growing up with professional thieves for parents. Scar looks right. You must have turned just right for it to give you a glancing blow, and it laid your arm open like the edge of a knife. You're damned lucky you didn't end up with a needle in your heart instead."

Gadget tilted her head, watching Elizabeth as she listened to Devin. "Say, Liz," Gadget ventured. "You've got a scar on the back of your head, too, just like Tina's. That wasn't another—"

"Assassination attempt? No, thank God. No more head wounds for me. You'd have to talk to a lot of people to get the whole story. Or maybe read my book—"

Justin rubbed at his eyepatch uncomfortably. "When you've got a few days to spare, anyway. It wasn't much fun for me either. Makes good reading though."

Gadget chuckled uncertainly. "Oh, I don't think I'll have time for a novel until I'm settled in the rest of the way."

"She'll be too busy with medical texts," said Devin. "Blew my score on the TMAT right out of the water."

Elizabeth clasped her paws together in delight. "Oh, I'm so glad to hear that! Sorry, Devin. But that means we get to keep Gadget around longer!"

"I'm sorry the circumstances aren't better," Justin shrugged, "the reasons for you being here, I mean. But you're quite a catch for the Institute. I'll bet you'll be a star student. And then, Dr. Ages has other plans for you—"

"—shh! You know he'll want to tell her himself," Elizabeth cut him off.

Gadget eyed her and Justin warily. "Plans? I'm not sure I like the sound of that. It makes me feel like I'm part of something big that I can't control. You told me yourselves to stay out of politics."

Devin squirmed uncomfortably. "I don't like it either. Whenever you Thorn Valley types talk about Plans-with-a-capital-P, you get into swordfights and drop cinderblocks on each other."

Justin bared his teeth at Devin for a moment before regaining his composure. "Don't go there, Doctor Packard."

"Okay, sorry, I just don't want Gadget getting dragged into some other mess. We've got enough to sort out as it is."

"Oh, stop it," Elizabeth ordered. "I promise Dr. Ages has nothing sinister or dangerous in mind."

Gadget snorted. "This is the same Dr. Ages who wants to get me drunk and con me out of my workshop space?"

Elizabeth and Justin were both silent for a moment. "One and the same," Justin groaned. "I'm sorry, you two. Looks like we've already gotten you into Thorn Valley politics after all."

Gadget clicked her tongue. "Politics, shmolatics. I was the only girl in a treehouse full of guys for a few years—you learn a thing or two about handling people, when you're outnumbered."

Elizabeth laughed. "I know the feeling. Justin and the boys keep me on my toes. It's good to have another woman in the house."

"What boys are those?" asked Gadget.

As if on cue, a small gray streak zipped across the living room and hid behind the couch. At the door it had come through, an ear, then an eye peeked out. Seeing feet behind the couch, the second visitor bounded into the room with a yell, brandishing a cardboard sword. "Come out from there and fight like a rat, Jenner!"

Devin narrowed his eyes at Elizabeth. "No way. You didn't name one of your kids after—"

Elizabeth shook her head briskly. "Oh, no, of course not. Just watch."

The first combatant stuck his head out from behind the couch. "You'll never take me alive, Justin!"

The smaller 'Justin' advanced menacingly. "I wasn't planning on it. Here I come!" The two leaped into the middle of the room and started hacking at each other with their pieces of cardboard. It was a vicious battle, and it struck Gadget that the swordplay looked awfully real. One of the fighters raised his 'sword' in the air and immediately got poked in the stomach. He dropped his weapon and backed away, clutching at his middle.

"Okay, that's enough," Justin growled goodnaturedly, and gathered the two combatants up under his big arms.

"Next time you be Jenner," the first told the second, both of them squirming in Justin's grasp. "Jenner always loses." Justin sat down by Elizabeth again and let the youngsters go. They sat kicking their footpaws restlessly against the couch.

"Gadget, Devin, meet our youngest children, Matt and Rouse," Elizabeth said with pride.

"Rhymes with house," Rouse piped up.

"We're half-rat, thanks to Dad—" offered Matt.

"—and half-mouse, thanks to Mom," Rouse countered.

"The rat half is better."

"Mouse."

"Rat!"

"M—"

Elizabeth clamped a paw over Rouse's mouth and Justin jabbed Matt gently in the ribs. They took the hint and quit bickering, for the time being. "As I was saying," Elizabeth put a note of warning in her voice for the kids' benefit, "these two are a lot of work, but we love them quite a bit."

Rouse recovered from being stifled by his mother, and brightened up. "Hey, Devin! I heard about you. Your mom and dad are the Perilous Packards! They sure did steal a lot of cheese. They out of jail yet?"

Devin rolled his eyes. _Lord, when am I going to get free of my parents' mistakes?_ "Yes. They got time off for good behavior."

"Good," nodded Matt. "I guess they didn't have to break out this time."

Devin gritted his teeth and wisely kept silent.

"Kids, this is probably going to go over your heads," Justin looked Matt and Rouse in the eye, in turn, "but there's such a thing as tact. It's spelled T-A-C-T. Go find a dictionary in Uncle Timmy's library, look it up, and ask Tina to explain it to you. Timmy and I don't have much of it ourselves, so we're not the ones to ask. Now scoot." He released the fidgety young rat-mice, and they scampered out the door with a simultaneous goodbye wave in Devin and Gadget's direction.

Gadget chuckled. "Quite a pair. I think I know why Timmy was grousing about their birthday party."

Elizabeth groaned. "It's been over a month and the kitchens still smell like birthday cake. So does Matt—he climbed into the mixer when it was full of batter."

Devin shook his head in amusement. "Got to admit, you've got a couple of sharp kids there. They're quite a pawful."

"The twins take pretty good care of each other, even if they do argue about the merits of their parentage," Elizabeth sighed. "We've kept a closer eye on them since the death threats."

Gadget's jaw dropped. Devin sat forward on the edge of the couch, disbelieving. "Not against the kids—" he blurted.

"'Fraid so," Justin confirmed. Elizabeth shuddered. "At the birthday party. Timmy left the kitchens to direct traffic in the main banquet hall, and someone sneaked in. No one noticed until we brought it out with the candles lit, but someone had taken icing, crossed out the kids' names on the cake, and wrote 'Halfbreeds must die'. In neat cursive script."

"We blew out the candles, cut that section out, and started over. Strange looking cake…" Elizabeth mused grimly.

"Bad as that was, we hoped it was an isolated incident. Unfortunately it wasn't." Justin clenched his paws angrily. "They broke into our house—this house—they didn't have much time, so they just shredded a few clothes, broke a window, left a nasty note, and left."

"How nasty was the note?" Gadget fretted.

Elizabeth and Justin looked at each other worriedly. Elizabeth snagged a folder from a low endtable beside the couch. She retrieved a rumpled piece of paper, stood, and handed it to Gadget like a dead fish. She sank back into her seat and waited for Gadget to get through it.

Devin, curious as ever, read over Gadget's shoulder for a second before she shivered with disgust and thrust the paper at him. He smoothed it out to get a better look—and wished he hadn't. "'Abomination'? 'Deserve to be torn slowly limb from—' Okay, I thought nothing could still turn my stomach. Dear God, I can't bear to think of that happening to any child."

"Did you make it to the part about 'species traitors' and retribution?" Elizabeth covered her eyes and Justin drew her close.

"Yes, I did," Gadget grimaced. Devin nodded in regretful affirmation.

"Like far too much of what we do here," Justin whistled through his teeth, "we had an ulterior motive for having you meet Matt and Rouse."

"Both of you will understand, you're scientific-minded souls," Elizabeth reassured them. "Matt and Rouse—they're something completely new."

"There have been crosses before, sure. But NIMH didn't realize a side-effect of the injections they gave us—when they altered our DNA to increase our intelligence, something else happened. Something wonderful and strange." Justin smiled at Elizabeth.

"It's putting it in a very simple way," she hesitated. "You know how they call O-negative the 'universal donor' blood type, because anyone can take a transfusion of it?"

Devin and Gadget both nodded.

"Well," she continued, "imagine a universal DNA donor. You're looking at two of them."

Devin slapped his forehead. "That's how you did it. Interspecies pregnancy is usually a million-to-one shot, but you're playing with rigged dice."

Gadget patted her stomach thoughtfully. "We're hoping there's a better candidate—no offense—but the father of my child might be a NIMH rat or a descendant."

"That's right. Technically, any rat in Thorn Valley could father—or be the mother of—a genetically mixed child." Elizabeth scratched her head. "All that stands in the way is a lack of opportunity and a natural tendency to stick with the same species."

"Our enemies out there don't think that's enough. They think that even cooperation between species is a perversion." Justin leaned forward and pointed a paw at Gadget. "That's why they chose the Rescue Rangers as their first victims. A practice run, you might say."

Gadget looked down sadly. "Two mice, two chipmunks, and an insect. Best friends. God, they must have hated us to do what they did."

"Any hate they have for animals who are friendly with other species—that's nothing to the hate they must feel for mixed-species ones, like our Matt and Rouse." Justin's voice wavered with love and concern.

"Oh, hell. That goes for the child you're carrying, Gadget," Devin noted fretfully. "If you weren't at the top of these psychos' hit list, you are now."

"We'd fight to the death to protect our children," Elizabeth said fiercely. "We just pray it never comes to that."

Button images by Keith Elder


	23. Chapter 23

****

Chapter Twenty-Three

When Devin and Gadget finally excused themselves from the Justins' abode, it was growing late in the afternoon. Both of them were feeling the need for some sunlight again, to wash out the heavy feeling of stone, draperies, and re-circulated air. They burst out into the open, stretching and breathing deeply.

"That," growled Gadget, "was exhausting."

__

I hope I earn the right to hear you say that in a happier tone of voice someday, Devin smiled, but for now just agreed with her. "Yep. They ought to hand out scorecards. You really should talk with the Justins when there's not so much trouble in the Valley. I hear there were a few days in August last year that were almost sane."

Gadget sat down on a smooth flat stone (obviously others had found it comfortable, as the passage of many tails had worn it shiny), trying to wrap her mind around the tumult of events and personalities Justin and Elizabeth had filled her in on. "Everyone here wants something from someone, or wants to do something for someone--or more likely to someone," she groused.

Devin whistled through his teeth, staking out a spot beside her. "How is that different from anywhere else?"

"It's not," she said firmly. "It's like a little bit of everywhere else, packed in a pressure cooker."

Devin grinned. "So why don't we let off some steam?" There were places in Thorn Valley that weren't anywhere near a cave, grotto, or overhang--Devin didn't want to get into the habit of scuttling around underground all day taking care of business, though it was too easy to do in these parts.

Gadget sighed with relief. "Sounds like a plan to me. I don't think I could stand meeting one more Thorn Valley bigwig today."

"I'm with you on that, Gadge. If we tried to visit Arthur at this hour, he'd probably try to feed us dinner." Devin brushed his whiskers as if he had something unpleasant caught in them. "Trust me, you don't want that."

"You sound awfully serious, Dev," she cocked her head, eyes sparkling. "His cooking's really that bad?"

"Indigestible. You'd probably need my medical services."

Gadget raised an eyebrow. "Who says I don't need them?" she asked with a chuckle full of mischief. Devin regarded her with a pleasant shock, and while he was working his mouth trying to come up with an answer, she leaned over and gave him a swift peck on the cheek.

"You're a tease, you know," Devin breathed, rubbing his cheek in wonder.

"Of course, you silly rat. What else is a girl going to do for fun around here?"

Devin almost spoke his mind. Out of respect, and a more-than-medical concern for her emotional stability, he bit his tongue. _Yes, that would be very good, but not good for her yet._ He went with his second answer instead. "Done much sailing, Gadge?"

"Not enough," she smiled.

A knock on the door of the ramshackle lakeside cabin let the weary Boatkeeper know he had company. Not for the first time, he thought better of letting Arthur talk him into building his home right into the pier--when he finally retired, he decided, it would be to someplace dry.

He couldn't think who it could be at the door. The last fishing boat had signed in half an hour before, and as far as he knew there weren't any 'pleasure-boaters' out on the lake. That was a good thing in his estimation, as there had been some trouble with a doctor who'd come (as the Boatkeeper called it) "up from the Institute" for a skim on the lake. One of the fishing-boat crews had retrieved the boat, tied up on a distant stretch of shore, but neither fur nor pawprint of the doctor had been seen since. _Everyone gets a little stir-crazy down in the Valley now and then,_ was the Boatkeeper's theory, _I just wish it wouldn't happen on my watch._

If he'd had any idea what Devin was going to ask for, and the way things would go, the Boatkeeper probably would have pretended he was out. As it was, he opened the door kindly enough, as his visitors set their well-stocked wicker baskets down and waved in welcome. "Hello, Roger!" Devin cheerfully hailed him.

Roger remembered him, all right--Devin had saved his right foot-paw, the one nearly torn off by a stray loop of rigging line. Roger didn't much relish the idea of having a peg-leg, or answering to the name "Jolly Roger" more than he already did, so he harbored a healthy gratitude and respect for the young doctor. He just had an odd way of showing it.

"Dev Packard! Come alongside and report, you son-of-a-cheese-thief!"

Gadget narrowed her eyes. Devin held up two pawpads. "Actually, both of them were cheese thieves--" he started, but Roger stepped forward and pounded him roughly on the shoulder.

"Don't mind me, miss," Roger turned to Gadget, "I talk to everyone that way, as long as they'll put up with it."

"I wouldn't put up with it for very long," she said primly, though not without a trace of amusement.

"'Course not, you're a lady," Roger noted. He was a great one for picking up the obvious. That same clear-eyed tendency to see the truth at first glance told him something else about his pair of visitors--they had each other wound up tight enough to be unpredictable. _Just don't let them sink any of my boats or cause a scandal in one,_ he fretted. "So, what brings you up to the Plateau? I suppose you'll be wanting to borrow a raft and have yourselves a nice evening picnic out on my lake, eh?"

Devin cut his eyes at Gadget, who was about to nod in agreement with Roger but suddenly wasn't sure. "I had something a little more…invigorating in mind."

__

I bet you did, Roger sighed to himself.

In the middle of their earlier watery escapade--that morning's unexpected dunk in the waterfall pool down in the Valley--Gadget had called Devin a water-rat. She was surprisingly close to the truth.

Before Devin had grown into his first set of whiskers, his parents' dubious occupation introduced him to a dozen different illegal uses of water. Now, of course, water is not exactly a controlled substance, but the stuff the Perilous Packards were smuggling was certainly contraband. They rafted across the Rio Grande, dodging the border patrol with untold shipments of purloined Mexican queso fresco. They zigzagged across the Great Lakes, running mozzarella for the furry branch of the Cosa Nostra. It was a dangerous life, but Devin was too young to know. He just had fun being on the move, never knowing he was on the run.

Devin and his parents once had a close brush with Bernard and Bianca that would have embarrassed both Rescue Aid and the Packards, had they realized--it was in one of the quieter periods (the Packards hadn't put any unfortunate law enforcement types in Rescue Aid hospitals for a while). The Perilous Packards were ferrying what Monty Python called "the harder stuff" (Cheddar, Gouda, and such) in a little leaf-boat down on the bayou. Their occasional partner in crime, who rented himself out as an outboard motor, was a near-tireless dragonfly named Evinrude. Thanks to Devin's fond memory of the irrepressible little fellow, he understood a little bit more of why Gadget missed her housefly friend Zipper.

While Devin had obviously turned from his parents' thieving ways (his current cargo was a picnic lunch and a pretty lady), the love of fast boats never left him. That's why at first glance, his latest ride seemed woefully out of character--it didn't seem to have a motor at all.

Gadget was thoroughly mystified. She was no stranger to the art of building boats--from sleek racing craft to hydrofoils, she'd launched many a vessel. The one they were on now resembled a satellite dish with an off-center antenna, but that "antenna" looked more like a miniature construction crane. What caught her eye first, however, was the upside-down periscope mounted behind the steering wheel.

"This is one hell of a weird boat you got here, Dev," she shook her head in near-admiration at its wacky construction. Devin sat beside her in an inexplicably complicated seat--like her own, it had a snug (but currently unworn) harness that vaguely disturbed her. Gadget was all for doodads and gizmos, but straps and leather weren't exactly her thing.

"All will come clear in time," Devin hinted, with no intention of letting her off the hook yet. He just put his oar back in the water for another stroke, and she followed suit. "First, I'd just like that nice quiet picnic dinner with you."

"Timothy certainly made a fuss about giving up the picnic baskets and food," Gadget sighed, putting her oar away in its place by her seat. "Somehow, though, I think it was an act."

"Mmm-hmm," Devin agreed. "He was looking at us pretty funny and winking at Tina so often I almost asked him if he had something in his eye."

Gadget nodded and laughed, a welcome sound to Devin's heart. "You're right, Dev. Timmy can be a grump sometimes, but I really think he means us well."

"You know," Devin started, "he even thought…" Devin trailed off, thinking better of his words.

"Thought what?" Gadget's ears perked up. Devin waved her off politely, hoping she'd let it drop for now. "No, really, it's all right. What did the little grouch think about us?"

Devin sighed. _She won't let it go. Just be gentle._ "Don't be mad at him, please. I already told him he was way off-center. He thought I was the father of your baby." He grimaced, expecting her to blow up.

Gadget's eyes went wide, but she shook her head good-naturedly. She laid a calming paw behind his ear and looked him in the eye. "Devin, really. I don't mind. I'd be honored."

Devin grinned to beat all. "You just made my day, Gadge." This time she made the move, leaping up to pin him against his seat and throwing her arms around him. She tickled his nose playfully with her whiskers, and kissed him full on the lips before he could say anything else. His own arms found their way comfortably around her back.

"Where did that come from?" Devin asked happily. She took his paw and guided it to rest on her blue workshirt, right over her heart.

"From here," she said. "Because--because I love you." _I have so wanted to say that,_ the thought flashed.

Devin thought that he might melt and run down into a puddle in the bottom of the boat. "It's a good strong heart," he told her, his voice cracking a little as he felt her life pulsing wildly under his paw. "And I love its owner. It's beating a little fast right now, but a good kiss will do that."

"It's been doing that ever since I got into this rustbucket with you, silly! This is the first chance I've had to be really alone with you, with no one waiting for us to get back. No Runner, no Timmy and Tina, just you and me."

The lake was still and silent. They were as close to the middle of the lake as they could get, and not so much as a single other watercraft disturbed the glassy waters. "I'm glad to have you all to myself, Gadget. Coming out here alone with me took a lot of trust."

Gadget looked at him as if he'd just sprouted a pair of antennae. "Trust? Devin, I'd trust you with my life. You've already helped me put so much of it back together."

"I'm just trying to be gentle, Gadget. Honest, and gentle."

"That's why I trust you," she said softly. She shut her eyes and appeared to be thinking very hard.

Devin cocked his head. "What--"

"--shh," she put a paw to his lips, and then seemed to make up her mind. She nodded in answer to an unspoken question and took his paw away from its place on her chest.

"Okay, I'm curious," Devin started again, but fell silent. Gadget reached behind her back, and he heard the zipper of her worksuit come undone partway. She shrugged the top of the suit down, and it hung loosely around her strong, sleek shoulders.

Artwork by Keith Elder

Devin's jaw dropped in awe as she drew herself closer and gently took the stethoscope from around his neck. As she carefully folded it and laid it aside, he found his voice. "G-gadget, you don't have to do that--" _Dear God, I want her so bad, but I don't want to hurt her!_

This time she took both of his paws in hers, moving them toward her shoulders. He ran his paws deeply through her soft fur as she pulled them downward, taking the worksuit along as they went. "I know I don't have to," she reassured him breathlessly, "but I want to, so very much." She attacked the buckle of his belt with the same determination she'd shown with her new set of tools at her workshop, and Devin found himself helping her eagerly.

The buckle was no match for the combined skills of a master mechanic and a skilled doctor. It yielded quickly, and before Devin could think or talk his way out of something they both deserved, he found himself suddenly enveloped in a sensation of indescribable sweetness.

As it might be expected, they made a few waves.

Button images by Keith Elder


	24. Chapter 24

****

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gadget woke up to a lake full of stars.

They weren't the first stars she'd seen that evening, to be sure--but these didn't dance away now in front of her pleasantly dizzy eyes. No, as she raised her head from her well-earned sleep, it seemed rather that a sort of celestial popcorn had silently exploded around their boat. Stars flung across the sky, stars shining in the depths of the dark waters... Gadget snuggled back against Devin's chest, feeling safe as he automatically wrapped his arms back around her, listening to his still-sleeping breath, and watching a smile twitch the corners of his mouth. _Timmy and Tina probably think we fell in by now,_ she sighed happily, _and that's not far from the truth!_

The boat was littered with the debris of their picnic--marmalade jars scraped clean (licked clean, Gadget admitted), huge loaves of Timothy's bread reduced to crumbs--hardly a scrap of food had escaped Devin and Gadget's well-worked-up appetite. Exhausted and full of good food, it was no wonder they'd collapsed into a furry happy tangle of arms and legs. It was a wonder that night had crept up on them so suddenly...

A cool breeze swept over the boat, rustling Devin's whiskers. He woke to find Gadget's head tucked comfortably under his, her headfur glowing softly in the starlight. _How do you wake a sleeping angel?_ he thought, but he needn't have worried. She turned to look up at him, eyes full of love and hope. "Hello, sweetheart," he said.

"Sounds good to me," her eyes sparkled. "Gadget, Gadge, Hackwrench, sweetheart,"

"--anything but 'Miss,' " they finished in unison, and broke up in laughter.

"But speaking of 'miss,' how did I miss the last--" he looked up at the sky, "--five hours or so? I had something I wanted to show you--"

Gadget just wriggled her nose and gave him the look.

"--something else I wanted to show you," he corrected himself, shaking a pawpad at her in mock warning.

"This time it's about the boat, right?" She began to look around at the winch and pulley system, the oddly slanted mast (maybe it was a mast, but there was no sail)... "Give me a second. Maybe I can figure this out on my own."

While Gadget was taking a good hard look at the machinery, Devin marveled again at the way she had--more literally than anyone else he knew--of switching gears. Though he knew this ability sometimes irritated her, it was one of the things he loved about her. She always gave herself totally to the moment. Right now, all of her attention was focused on the puzzle he'd given her--what the heck was this tub designed for?

"Okay," she finally nodded, her look of determination softening once more into another that said she had it partway worked out. "We're out here to catch something, aren't we?"

__

I already did, Devin almost said, _and she's a keeper. _But he just grinned and nodded as he reached for his paddle and Gadget picked up her own. "Exactly, Gadge. We're going to catch something big."

The last visit Devin had made to Thorn Valley had fallen during a frenzy of activity on the lake, as winter was coming on hard and the lake was about to freeze over. Experience had taught the Rats that importing food to Thorn Valley during the winter was a dangerous and backbreaking task, so local reserves were key.

The need for strong and well-trained paws was so great that even Roger had been dragged from his post, away from the repairs and outfitting he'd grown used to. He and the other rats in their fishing boat--one of a dozen or more sweeping the lake with their nets--were hauling in a load of slippery, flippery fish destined for Timothy's kind care.

That's when the pike decided he'd like a taste of the catch.

A mean old mossy mother of a fish, he was no fool. He knew these strange rats didn't scare away easily, and a few painful spear thrusts had cured him of making direct attacks on the boats. Still, a net full of fish proved to be too much temptation, and he ripped into it with his long serrated jaws, like a youngster with both paws in a cookie jar. It looked like an easy meal, but the net caught in his great teeth and the pike thrashed frantically to get free.

Poor Roger and his friends were tossed mercilessly against the side of the fishing boat, which tipped so quickly that the mast slammed into the water and snapped like a toothpick. The rigging lines of the ship snarled up like the string of a cheap yo-yo, with one loop catching Roger's footpaw and nearly dragging him to his death beneath the frothing water churned up by the maddened pike.

Roger surely would have been killed--but by the grace of God, Devin was in one of the boats that swarmed in to rescue the wrecked sailors. He dove under the overturned boat, slashing at the rigging with a scalpel, coming up for air a few times. The pike wriggled loose and dove deep in the lake, a few missing teeth the only reward for all its trouble. Devin and a few others hauled Roger up and squeezed the extra water out of him. With a pair of pliers, some fishing line, and a random collection of instruments from his medical bag, Devin almost had to reattach Roger's unfortunate footpaw.

Roger and Devin vowed they'd hunt the ravenous lake monster down and see if he was edible--of course, after suffering Arthur the Engineer's attempts at cuisine, Roger's taste buds were probably ruined anyway. Arthur pitched in—his culinary disasters still hurt his pride, so he was glad when odd projects came his way—and they began to cobble together the strangest-looking boat that fur-kind had ever laid eyes on.

An unkind observer might have called the boat ugly, though it was just the sort of quirky contraption that Gadget loved to put together. It rode low in the water, unless by some miracle it attained a great speed (as Gadget had wondered at, it had no motor). Its mast was set at an unbalanced angle. With no keel to speak of, and its saucer-like design, it had an unpleasant tendency to spin, depending on who was the strongest rower--and it was a wide enough that two rowers were an absolute must.

The boat looked, in short, like a mistake.

This, then, was the boat Devin had taken Gadget out in. And he had only told his petite, blonde, slightly pregnant companion that their outing would be "fun." So far that had turned out to be an understatement... If Gadget had known the history of their bizarre little watercraft, it would've ruined the surprise for Devin, who was about to introduce her to Thorn Valley's second-most breathtaking sport.

It was the least he could do, as she'd introduced him to the first-most.

They paddled the boat close to a pile of mossy rocks, near the shore farthest from Roger's pier. Gadget eyed a rock jutting out over the water. "So, should we tie up the boat here?"

"Probably not a good idea, Gadge. We're not staying long." _And we might end up smashing the boat to splinters, _he thought. From a large canvas bag at the back of the boat, he began to shake out a net. It was basket-like in shape, with strong light hoops of wood holding it open, tapering down to a narrow end. With Gadget's help, he attached it to the metal cable threaded along the 'mast', then they dropped it into the water. Gadget and Devin both kept hold of a line each, the strong thin ropes running under opposite sides of the boat.

"Okay. These are for making turns with, aren't they?" Devin nodded. He tied his line to a sliding bar-like contraption connected to the steering machinery. Gadget watched carefully and did the same. "There's our navigation," she noted, going through a mental checklist, "but where's our power source?"

Devin grinned and pointed down. "He's sleeping in a big hollow right underneath these rocks."

"So we wake him up and scare him into the net, right? It'd probably help if we used the reverse periscope. This button turns a light on?"

"You've read the owner's manual, haven't you?" It seemed to Devin that Gadget knew the boat better than he did himself.

"No," Gadget winked, "I just know a little bit about night-time maneuvers." Devin raised an eyebrow. "Shh! Don't say anything. You can take that any way you want."

Linking arms behind each other's back, sharing the periscope with an eye apiece, heads together, this is what they saw when the light went on:

Glittering deep in the sheltered spot beneath the rocks were a pair of eyes. Cold, unblinking eyes. Fortunately for the intrepid hunters, the pike had chosen a long but narrow retreat for his home, and it was an easy matter to tease the net into place just outside the opening.

"He is asleep, right?" Gadget was no coward, but even closed in their stillness, those toothy jaws in the long snout looked very dangerous.

"He's a deep sleeper. On a scale of one to 10, he's a 10." Devin nudged Gadget's tail with his own. "Scale—fish—get it?"

"Oh, that's awful, Dev," Gadget chuckled, and thought for a moment. "He won't win any beauty contests. With fins like those, who needs enemies?"

Devin groaned this time, to Gadget's satisfaction. "Hey, wait," Devin noticed, his anticipation building. "He's starting to move around. Pretty soon he'll wake up and come investigate."

Gadget jumped in surprise, yanking her head away from the eyepiece of the periscope as the pike suddenly surged into action and flashed towards the boat. As the boat began to rock violently, Devin pulled back too, guiding Gadget down to her seat and helping her buckle the complicated harness. "Shoulda warned you more," he fretted.

"I'm okay. What now?" The boat bumped and bucked as the water churned. Devin jumped into his seat, buckling belts and slapping down straps of his own. Gadget leaned over to double-check, tightening things here and there for him.

"Now," Devin yelled over the crashing water, "he'll realize his snout is stuck and he'll try swimming straight to get away!"

"Oh, man," Gadget whistled, "and I guess we go along for the ride!"

With that, the boat gave a tremendous jerk, down and forward, throwing a spray of water around the boat in a massive ring. Gadget's headfur trailed back over her seat, Devin's heart leaping for joy as he saw a combination of shock and pleasant thrill of speed cross his beloved's face. As for himself, his stethoscope was clicking at his neck like a pair of castanets, the fur of his face just as sleeked-back from the rush of the wind as Gadget's was. The boat hopped and skimmed, sometimes skewing to one side or the other as the confused and struggling pike made near-90-degree turns. Gadget howled with laughter until she was hoarse, Devin sputtering as more water kicked up on his side of the boat and gave him a little wake-up splash. _To hear that honest, happy laugh from her means the world to me,_ he thought dizzily, the stars spinning overhead like pinpoints of light from a mirror ball in a discotheque.

The ride calmed down considerably. Gadget sighed regretfully, the way she might have when a roller-coaster car pulled back into the station.

"We tired him out, sweetheart. What a ride, huh?" Devin propped his footpaws up on the steering wheel, which they'd hardly had a chance to use.

"Dang..." Gadget reflected. "Well, the boat makes a lot more sense now. You do this often?"

Devin shook his head and began to wriggle out of his harness. Though he knew it was for good cause, he didn't like seeing Gadget so restrained, so he began to help her out too, the boat gliding along much more slowly now. He imagined the pike swimming in a wide, forlorn circle below, and felt a touch of pity. "The pike can't do this every day. It'd kill him after a while. "

"That was great, Devin, but if it's so hard on him," she put a paw on his arm, "isn't it a little cruel to use him this way?" Her sympathy for the great creature was unquestionable, as her eyes went soft and she hung on Devin's answer.

He took her in his arms and patted her back, running his paws through her headfur more freely than he had dared the day before. "Maybe just a little cruel. But he doesn't come anywhere near the fishing boats any more."

"Because he's afraid he'll get pressed into towing service again," chuckled Gadget. "We've had our fun, Devin. Let's turn him loose."

Devin nodded, reluctantly giving her fur one last gentle stroke for now and turning to the steering wheel. "We'll point him in the right direction first."

It took both of them to turn the wheel, as the pike resisted being 'told' which way to go. He gave in soon enough, and they had the boat pointed toward the jumble of rocks the fish knew as home. When they were a few boat lengths from the small, barren island, Devin kicked a lever to one side of the periscope. The winch at the base of the 'mast' reeled out a length of cable, and the steering lines went slack as well. There was a moment of silence, then a disturbance under the boat as the pike flipped free of the suddenly loose net.

Gadget leapt to the periscope again and swung it around in time to see the weary old monster drag himself into his underwater cave. "It'll take him a while to recharge his batteries," she said, shaking her head in amusement and sympathy. Huge jets of silt shot out of the cave, swirling in the light of the periscope as the pike went deeper in, obscuring Gadget's view.

Above, Devin noticed Gadget's frown and suddenly felt uneasy. "What's up? Well, in this case, what's down?"

"Looks like our grumpy boat-motor friend is doing some spring cleaning."

"He wants to get as far away from us as he can," Devin offered. "Probably just throwing mud around and hoping we can't see him."

"Maybe," Gadget said uncertainly as she watched the cloudy water start to clear.

Artwork by Keith Elder

She suddenly let out a shriek of real terror, as free from mirth as the ones she'd let out during their wild ride had been full of it. She flung herself back from the eyepiece and sought Devin's solid presence, pointing at the periscope but unable to get any words out. "Devin, oh, Devin--it's--it's horrible, Devin!"

Cupping a paw to her face and feeling the sudden tears of fright there, he calmed her down as best he could and went to take a look.

Looming in the range finder of the periscope was a loose, floppy object in the settling layer of muck the pike had stirred up. Once upon a time, its fur had been a light brown; now it was matted with black lake-mud. Its lab coat had frightened Gadget's the most--mostly because it had once looked something like Devin's. Now it was tattered, and flapped slowly about the body like a shroud.

Devin jumped back from the periscope as if stung, pale and shaky. He sat down and wrapped Gadget up again, and she clutched at his fur. "Devin, are you okay? Just breathe, please, you'll pass out!" Devin nodded. He hadn't realized how long it'd been since he had taken a breath. He sucked in two good lungfuls of air, then held her shoulders gently but firmly.

"I know who that is, Gadget. And we've got to go wake a bunch of people up."

She nodded, brushing her tears away and going into survival mode again. Devin felt her muscles bunch up and harden under her fur, and heard steel in her voice. "Yes," she said. "Right now."

Button images by Keith Elder


	25. Chapter 25

Out Of Range, Chapter 25

****

Chapter Twenty-Five

Artwork by Keith Elder

The viewplate of the diving suit fogged over yet again, and Gadget reached automatically with one thick-gloved paw to swipe at it. It clanked uselessly against the glass.

__

Youre underwater, silly, she berated herself, _and that fogs on the inside of your helmet._

The retrieval operation was a two-person job, and with the exception of Arthurwho slogged his way through the lakebottom muck beside her in his bigger suitshe was the only soul in Thorn Valley who was certified to use the scuba gear.

Well, "scuba" wasnt right. The "s" and "c" in scuba stood for self-contained, which these clumsy suits definitely werent. They were run off air-hoses, connected to huge compressors weighing down the boats above them. Those same compressors would soon be laboring and wheezing to run the suction hoses Gadget and Arthur dragged along. Gadget had used a similar setup before to clear sand and debris away from an ancient shipwreck.

This time, she wasnt after treasure.

Devin had gotten very protective, and didnt want her going down into the dark, cold waters on her morbid errand. His concern and love for Gadget touched her greatly, but as she pointed out, there was no other choice. Arthur, God bless him, was a crafty and capable rat in all matters but cuisine, but in all fairness he was only a little younger than Dr. Ages, and wasnt aging as well. A strong pair of armsand a sharp pair of eyeswere assets that only Gadget could lend Arthur now.

Devin had glumly conceded the point, and coaxed a promise out of herfor her unborn childs sake, and for her own, shed surface quickly if she started to feel lightheaded or strange in any way.

__

Compared to what? she wondered, lurching through the near-dark of the lake, lights from the boat above casting haloes and filtering down through the silt dredged up in the wake of her progress. _My normal days would land most people in the looneybin._ She felt a sudden pang of longing for her sanctuary cave, with its rocky stillness and its soft bed, with the door she could lock against all the madness outside. She smiled at the quickness with which some corner of her heart had latched onto that place as home. _Devin will most definitely be welcome there, especially after this nights dark work,_ she nodded silently.

Arthur gestured her forward, squinting eyes peering through his faceplate. The dark blur ahead resolved itself into the towering rocks the pike had fled to, and where the object of their mission lay.

Arthur went down on his knees and aimed his suction hose at the forlorn, drifting shape Gadget knew was the body. As she threw the switch on her own silt-sucker, she felt her air supply hitch and diminish a little. Her lungs really had to pull for a breath now. _What about Arthur? I hope the old fellows getting enough air._ Working together, she and Arthur cleared some working space in a ring around the body. She didnt envy Devin and the others in the boats above, as they were surely working double-time scraping algae, dead leaves, and mud out of the systems filters.

Arthur yanked twice on his line, and sat down beside the body. Most of the moss and grime that had earlier covered it was now gone, and its fur was a dull patchy brown in the lights. Arthur reached a paw out as if to touch it, but covered his faceplate instead. Gadget took a step toward him, concerned, but he waved her off gently.

From above came a shock rippling through the water, and a slapping sound to go with it. The two aquatic explorers raised their paws to receive the clear, box-like glass tank lowered to them from one of the boats. A last few air bubbles made for the surface as they bobbled out of the tanks corners. With much fumbling of paws, they guided the tank to rest with its open side facing the body.

Gadget gulped the steamy air inside her helmet and bent to look for a good pawhold that wouldnt damage the unfortunate remains, but Arthur just stood in his suit and trembled. He sent little waves of distress up his air-hose as he joined her and nodded quicklya lets-get-this-over nod. They laid their covered paws on the ruined once-white fabric of the bodys lab coat, and rolled it gently into the tank, bits of fur coming loose despite all their care. Then, rocking the tank back and forth, they turned it right side up and let its contents settle.

They hefted the thick glass cover of the tank, and slid it across the top, hearing its seal close with a muffled click. Gadget was reminded of a television special shed seen, when a magician had himself chained tight and lowered into fresh concrete inside a glass coffin. No magic trick was going to bring this fellow out of the waters safe and sound, Gadget reflected, but she drew back in amazement as Arthur threw himself across the tank. His chest hitched and heaved as he pounded a paw against the cover.

Gadget pulled at his arm, and he let himself be led off a few paces. He sat there, huddled and shaky, as Gadget went back to check the lines tied to metal rings at the tanks corners. She pulled at one of the lines, and the whole affair rocked and swayed toward the surface of the water. As she returned to Arthurs side and peered through his faceplate, she saw his eyes were shut tight and he was breathing more shallowly nowmuch more. Hooking an arm around his, she undid the weights at his ankles and her own, then kicked with all her might for the surface. Arthur was barely able to move his paws to help at all.

When Devin, Gadget, and Roger managed to haul Arthur into the boat and get his helmet off, they first thought his suit had sprung a leak. Actually, Arthur had. His grey-flecked fur was wet, not with lakewater, but with a flood of tears.

"I should have made both of you promise to come up at the first sign of trouble," Devin grumbled.

"I thought you were having a heart attack" Gadget started.

Devin pulled one of her gloves off and guided a paw to Arthurs neck. She felt the jumpy, weak pulse there. "Feel that, Gadge? He was having one."

Gadget whistled. "Damn. Good thing we brought the bottled oxygen. Too bad we couldnt take it down with us"

As Gadget fitted the breathing mask on him, Arthur reached a paw weakly toward a nearby boat, where the glass tank was tied down. "I had to go," he wheezed. "That was my son down there."

Far from calm, but thankfully far away from the lake, Gadget lay in the dark of her room just off her workshop. She knew she should try to salvage the rest of this night, building up strength for the long day of questions and discoveries ahead, but her heart was uneasy. _It shouldnt be,_ she tried to convince herself. _Im here in a warm bed, held by a good guyno, a great guy who loves me, with nothing to do tomorrow but look for the truth._ A good place to work from, maybe, but the ups and downs of the day had spun her about so badly that she could not sleep.

Devin half-woke, his paws seeking out her own, which were clenched unknowingly in her long headfur. She let him guide her paws to his chest and hold them gently there. "Please, sweetheart, get some rest," he mumbled to soothe her, his eyes shining in the dark as he blinked them sleepily. "If youre still worried about Arthur"

"Thats some of it. "

"You had no way of knowing his ticker was going bad. With those suits you both had on, there was no telling how either of you were feeling."

Gadget shook her head. "Its not so much that I should have caught the heart attack diagnosis, Dev. Thats not what bothers me."

Devin kneaded her still-tense shoulders, putting his sleepy half-thoughts in order. "Hmm. So what does have your tail in a knot?"

"I just feel so bad about Arthur losing his son. I cant bear to think of what it would be like to lose a child"

Devin shushed her and took her paws again, guiding them from his chest down to her stomach. "I, for one, will work hard to make sure you never find out. Im your personal physician, milady--on call twenty-four-seven." He pulled his paws back up to her shoulders and went back to working the days stress out of her.

Gadget sighed as his strong paws seemed to pull the soreness deep out of her muscles. "Devin? Tell me something, and tell it to me straight."

"Ill do my best, Gadge. Id feel awful if I didnt."

"I know, I know. But when Im pregnant out to here," she made a guess, rounding out an invisible stomach with her paws, "with a child that isnt yours when just moving around makes me tired, and when Im cranky all the time, will you love me any less?"

"Well," he drawled, "speaking as a doctor"

"not as a doctor, as you!" she elbowed him gently.

"Ouch! Ill get there, dont worry. From all appearances, youre physically fine for a pregnancy. It might be an emotional rollercoaster, and you might have a little balance problem in the next couple of weeks, or need to rest more often, but I think youll be active up until the minute you pop."

"Dont dodge the question, Doctor Packard," she growled, a note of worry still in her voice. "Will you feel different about me through all this?"

His grip on her shoulders tightened and she felt his whiskers tickle her ear. "Speaking as myself, Id be a fool to let you doubt my love, or let you out of my paws, for an instant."

Gadget felt a warm flush ripple through hermostly happiness, but with a twinge of embarrassment. "Thank you so much, Devin. Am I silly for worrying?"

"Very silly. Now go to sleep."

Under Devins patient kneading, she gave in, and put the days worries off for a while. With a sigh of satisfaction, she settled in. She felt as though she and Devin might have been locked away in a time capsule, marked "Do Not Disturb," or better yet, "Do Not Open Until All This Weirdness Blows Over."

Still, falling asleep was like slipping into deep waters, and in her dreams she was drifting, drifting, plowing her paws slowly through the dark for something she was not sure she wanted to grasp.

Button images by Keith Elder


	26. Chapter 26

****

Chapter Twenty-Six

Turner lay quietly in the earthy hole carved carelessly out of the high riverbank, trying not to scratch at the bandages wrapped around his aching head. Two other rats squabbled over a stale crust of bread in the corner, but both were careful to avoid Turner. In his current mood, he might take more than an ear.

__

This is maddening. I'm not afraid of getting an infection, but I should be. Common sense is the only thing keeping me from raking my claws through the stitches. Ever since the operation, Turner had been forced to think about things more—he was a thoughtful rat by nature, especially when set against the rabble he suffered himself to live with. Now that his natural fear response was gone, he realized just how much of an effort it had been to keep fear deep-down and hidden.

Every day he had woken up dreading that someone had discovered the help he'd given to the rat-pack's victims and enemies, and he still doubted that feeling would ever fade, as long as he had to keep making those costly gifts. If word of his leaving the medical supplies for Gadget—or the plan-of-attack notes for Teresa and Martin Brisby—had ever reached the ears of his Commander (or any of the others, for that matter), they would have torn him into unidentifiable pieces. He had seen it done to the few others who had ever shown an ounce of compassion to anyone, anywhere—to the few rats in the group who had been decent enough to call friends. Their deaths had shaken Turner badly, and more than ever he felt terribly alone among these twisted souls. It was like being the only point of light in a sky of black holes.

A head much in need of washing popped up at the entrance to the makeshift shelter. "Mister Turner, sir!" the rat boomed.

Turner put his paws to his head and snarled, not having to pretend too hard that he was very, very touchy. "Speak quietly," he forced himself to take his own advice, "or you'll never speak again."

"Yessir," the other rat gulped. "I just wanted to let you know that the rats in Thorn V—"

"—speak that name in my presence and I'll teach you what your own heart tastes like," Turner said, and made it sound like a promise.

"I'm s-sorry, sir. What should I call them? 'Group A', like back at NIMH?"

Turner smiled toothily, despite feeling as if someone were trying to unzip his scalp. "Group A? That's good. We'll show them soon enough that grades aren't everything. Spit it out, what have our more fortunate cousins been up to?"

"They've found the doctor, the one what did the job on your head, Mister Turner."

"The one who ran?" Turner clicked his claws on muddy stone, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, though he knew exactly where the Thorn Valley crew must have dredged up their surprise.

"Yes, sir. All weighed down with rocks in his pockets, all green and grimy and full of water."

Turner snorted, not having to work too hard at sounding disgusted. "I wanted him to fix these damn stitches," he put on a tone of selfish anger. "They aren't healing right. He had to get himself killed, and me just halfway healed from his fumbling."

Perhaps it was an underhanded sort of hope that made the rat ask—Turner was, stitches or no stitches, the strongest and second-most dangerous of the bunch, but this was as vulnerable as the other rat had seen him. This other was not smart by any standards, but like his equally detestable comrades, he was sly. So he asked. "Say, Mister Turner… I see you have a new ear on your belt."

Artwork by Keith Elder

"What of it?!" snapped Turner. If this kept up, he'd have to hurt this messenger badly just to prove to the others that he didn't want to be bothered. "Do you want to add one of your own?" He shifted his bulk forward menacingly.

The rat backed away, covering his ears with his paws, but cocking his head thoughtfully. "No, sir! Just wondering—that's not the doctor's ear, is it?"

__

Oh, hell, Turner stopped, dead-still. _He's right, and you didn't even think about it when you took the ear! Now would be a good time to be afraid, but you can't, so just come up with something!_ "What do you take me for?" Turner spat at the mangy messenger. "He was a part of our Plan, our revenge! Do you think I'd throw all that away?" As he spoke, he slid around toward the entrance, cutting off the other's escape route.

The scheming sparkle in that other's eye winked out, replaced by pure dread. He had all but accused Turner of being a traitor, and he had seen rats maimed for less. Turner rarely killed; he left his enemies broken and close at hand. All this flashed through the villain's mind as he braced himself hopelessly against the wall a moment before Turner launched himself through the air.

With a howl of rage, Turner slammed his hammer-heavy paws against the messenger's sides, knocking all the air out of him. Before the rat could make a move against him, Turner flung massive arms around his middle and squeezed. Turner heard a wheeze that would have been a scream, with any air behind it, and felt ribs pop like bubble-wrap under the pressure. He bent his head and snapped a quick tooth-hold on the unfortunate fellow's ear, then flung his head back, ripping most of the ear away. He opened his arms and let the rat fall in a quivering heap.

Turner staggered back, not in pain, but with a red, berserk mist clouding his vision. In his mind's eye, he saw the smirking doctor in his white uniform, so clean and official-looking as he smuggled Turner back out across the lake on the Plateau. How the doctor had chuckled and grinned, so pleased with the evil he'd worked on Turner, ripping out a piece of his brain. How the creep had begun to brag about hurting Gadget and helping to turn her home into a place of unspeakable horrors—

__

Yes, Turner decided,_ be angry for her. You can't be afraid for her in quite the way you used to be, but you can hate what they did to her, and use that anger against these filth, any chance you get._

His vision clearing, Turner looked down at the rat bleeding and scraping uselessly against the earth. He turned to the two rats who had been fighting over the stale bread. They had forgotten their hunger completely. "I think this piece of trash wants to get away," Turner sneered. "You two push him out of the hole and make sure he keeps breathing. I want him to see his ear on my belt. Move!"

In a flash, the two had bundled off the latest fool to get on Turner's wrong side. When he was sure they were gone, Turner dropped the fresh-torn ear, put his head in his paws and began to weep. _Please, Dear God,_ he pleaded, _don't ever let me have to kill anyone ever again. There's a war coming if I can't stop it, and I know I would have to do terrible things. Please let me be strong._

It came to Turner suddenly that fear was perhaps a bigger thing than could be cut out of the brain. Fright—the shallow sort of fear that comes and goes in an instant—that was the only thing the doctor had been able to blot out. A deeper shade of afraid comes with realizing just what you're capable of in your worst moments.

Button images by Keith Elder


	27. Chapter 27

****

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The night before, Gadget could have sworn she never wanted to see water again--at least not if there were a dead rat to drag out of it. Now, she was about to wish that the whole lake would come rushing down from the Plateau.

It started with a muffled pounding at the door--the heavy, carefully balanced, impenetrable door that she had shut and bolted so that she and Devin might get some well-deserved peace. As Gadget brushed aside the covers, she rolled a touch awkwardly onto her side, for what felt like the hundredth time since she'd laid down the night before. She swung her footpaws over the edge of the bed, and stood up.

Wobbling dizzily, she tried to find her center of gravity. _There's that balance problem Dev warned me about! It snuck up on me when I wasn't looking!_ She felt her stomach--_fell asleep in the damn worksuit again…_and loosened the belt a notch. _Looks like you're needing more elbow room in there, kid._

On firmer footing now, she headed for the door as the pounding continued, though it was difficult to tell how urgent the knock was through the solid stone.

"Whozat this early?" Devin squinted up at her from the bed, the shaft of light from the skylight-hole making him want to sneeze.

"Early, shmerly," Gadget taunted him. "We've both slept in way too late. We should have met up with Dr. Ages by now." Gadget was already half-expecting to look down as she opened the door, and it would probably be Timothy grouching at them to come get breakfast before it got cold. But breakfast was anything but cold, and it wasn't a mouse in a wheelchair at the door--it was a squirrel with a crutch.

Runner had his paw drawn back to knock again, but he opened his arms to give her a frantic, frightened hug instead. "Gaddit! Debbin! Tha houb izzon fiber!"

Gadget shook her head. Maybe she was still sleepier than she'd thought.

"Speak again, squirrel," Devin yawned. "It didn't quite work the first time--"

Runner growled and thumped his cast on the floor, swinging his crutch around to point frantically. "Fiber! Fiber! Lobs of smote! I dunno where Tibby an' Teema are!"

Now that the door was open, Gadget could smell the truth of it. Timmy and Tina's cave was made of rock, but it was full of clothes, books, furniture--all of which might catch fire easily enough.

Devin cursed under his breath and half-slithered, half-thudded to the floor with the bedcovers. With Gadget's help, on the third try, he actually stood up.

"Neeb a kutch?" Runner chuckled nervously, holding his crutch out as Devin and Gadget rushed from the bedroom and into the workshop. "Watch oub!" he called after them, partly because they had almost knocked him over in their haste, and partly because they were hurrying into a dangerous mess.

Someone had been busy in the workshop. Piles of books and wooden-handled tools flamed in the corners. Gadget slammed a hip against one corner of a workbench as they dashed for the exit, but Devin caught her arm and steadied her. He gave her stomach a quick pat. "Careful, Gadge! You've got a passenger!" They wove their way toward the sunlight of the library, hunched over to get at the clearer air, Gadget saying a quiet prayer for the new life growing inside her.

They reached Timothy's workroom and library--it did not relieve their troubled minds one bit when they saw that none of the books remained on the shelves--all were burning in the room behind her or lying shredded here. The ceiling was higher, but the room was filling with smoke from both entrances. Runner was right--up above, at the entrance to the hallway just before the long drop down to the library, smote was indeed puffing out in huge lobs. Devin and Gadget stopped dead in their tracks as they saw Tina come coughing out of the hallway, staggering under Timothy's weight--he was slung over her shoulder and back like a sack of very small potatoes. Lively, potatoes, though--

"Put me down!"

"FIRE!! GET OUT!!" Tina hollered, batting at her smoke-reddened eyes with her one free paw. "Gadget! Anyone!"

"Dome wurry, Teema!" Runner called, stumping up behind the others.

"Down here, Tina!" Devin cupped his paws and yelled back, before he remembered. "Oh, hell," he said quietly.

"Devin!" Timothy choked. "Thank God!" He let go his death-grip on Tina's neck as they both spilled to the floor, choking. "Tina!" Timothy pointed frantically. "It's Dev and Gadget!"

Tina looked down--it was a long way, but it was good to see familiar, concerned faces. After Gadget's stories, she'd expected a horde of rogue rats milling around in the library, waiting to snap her up. "Thank God--it's just you!" She staggered to her feet and dragged Timothy toward the lift platform, with its beautiful big red button, that would take them down out of the smoke. _They say when you're deaf the other senses make up for it. If I could just turn off my sense of smell for a second--_

As she planted her paws on the platform, the waiting trio below motioning her onward, she felt the metal creak and buckle--

Runner rocketed forward on his cast, waving her off.

Artwork by Keith Elder

"GEB BAT!!" he cried, and Tina flung herself backward with her beloved cargo just before the heavy slab of metal wrenched free and clattered to the floor--a bare instant after Gadget and Devin pulled Runner out of the way. Runner pointed with his crutch again--"Id's the draks! All twifted!"

"Draks? Oh, tracks!" Gadget ran her paws along the metal posts and rails that should have held up the lift. Someone--_or several someones, _she winced--had taken the supports apart with crowbars. From above came the sounds of someone being squished.

"Agh! Tina, get up, I'm flat!" Timothy writhed as Tina found her footing again, leaving him on the ground this time. Behind her, flaming embers began to streak out of the tunnel exit along with the smoke, landing in her headfur and smoldering there as she shrieked and tried to beat them out with her paws. She joined Timothy on the floor, edging a footpaw over into space--

"DON'T!!" cried their would-be rescuers from below.

"It's too high to jump!" Gadget cast about desperately for something softer than computer equipment or shelving for Timothy and Tina to land on. The smell of fur beginning to burn hung in the air, a smell Gadget was all-too-familiar with. The heat pouring out of the tunnel and scorching the trapped pair was making her and Devin's whiskers wilt, even at that distance.

"Where's Runner?" Devin twisted around but the young squirrel had disappeared into the workshop. Devin swept a loose pile of smoldering papers off one of Timothy's desks onto the floor, stomping out sparks with his feet. "Dammit, my shoes are melting!"

"So am I!" howled Timothy. "Hurry up before I take the short way down again!"

"Don't you dare!" coughed Tina, barely able to lip-read through the smoke. "If anyone goes over, it's my turn!"

"Holb on!" Runner cried, hustling in as fast as his crutch and cast would let him, a coil of rope looped over one shoulder.

"Good thinking, Runner!" Gadget dropped her piece of planking and put a paw out for the rope. Runner looked her up and down, shook his head, and stepped to the base of the short cliff.

Devin grabbed his shoulder. "Runner, you'll break your leg again, or worse!"

"Gaddit's preggers and yoore a klutz." Devin scratched his head and nodded in agreement as Runner flung the crutch away and began to scale the wall, his cast dangling and bumping as he made a three-limbed ascent.

"Kid climbs like a spider," sighed Gadget.

"A spider with a few legs missing," Devin added.

"Cub it oud, I'm clybing!" Runner shot back over his shoulder, finding near-invisible chinks in the stone with his squirrelly little pawpads. He bristled and shrieked as Tina reached down to clamp her claws on him and pull him up the rest of the way. "Dome do thad!!" he growled, as his cast knocked against the edge.

Timothy snagged the rope and knotted it around a twisted metal post--all that remained of his lovely chairlift. He felt like he'd been under a hair-drier for an hour, and as Elizabeth Brisby's son, he knew exactly how that felt. "Tina, your legs have never looked so good. Pick me up and get 'em moving!"

Tina scooped up Timothy as though he was made out of styrofoam (though she was sure her arms would feel like low-grade lead tomorrow), flung him across her shoulder, and rappelled down the rope in three huge bounds without a care for her paws. _Better a ropeburn than getting barbecued! _By the time Devin and Gadget met her at the bottom and relieved her of Timothy, Runner was halfway down the bare wall again himself.

"Rope! Use the rope!" Gadget waved her arms, but almost before she was finished, Runner was low enough to hop to the floor with one leg and snag his crutch. He was a wobbly red streak as he thumped past the others and into the workshop--as they joined him, the disturbed air of the library was filling with ash and cinders, the carpet beginning to curl up at the edges.

"Squiggles don' use robpe," Runner said proudly, allowing himself a bit of a well-earned swagger.

Devin grunted, under even half of Timothy's weight. "And I guess mice don't believe in sprinkler systems?"

"It was on the to-do list," grumbled Timothy, his eyes red and streaming tears that were only half from the smoke, which was nearly as bad here as in the library. "They burned the books! All of the journals Nicodemus left us! Our whole history, up in smoke!"

Tina stumbled along, half-blind from the smoke herself but keeping a close eye on Timothy. "It's not all gone, Timmy! You typed so much of it--"

__

Not enough, he grimaced, and would have kicked himself if his legs had worked.

"--and there are backups all over the Valley!"

Gadget kicked aside one ragged half of a book-cover with a gold-inlaid title and bits of mirror worked into the binding. Timothy shook his head sadly at Tina. "I'll take the real books any day."

In their jumbled flight, they had made it most of the way through the workshop. Gadget let Devin take Timothy's weight for a moment as she scooped up her pack of tools--left untouched at the base of a workbench, almost like a gift again. She drew out a makeshift weapon. "If one of the creeps who set this fire is still down here, he'll get a drop-forged steel screwdriver in the eye."

They piled into Gadget's room--when it had just been Devin and herself, she had thought of the room as cozy. As they all pushed the massive door shut, and she realized the place was standing-room-only, she decided the right word at the moment was crowded. This was a reprieve she didn't care to second-guess, though--it was a blessed thing to be out of the worst of the smoke. There was still a tinge to the air, but the skylight and air-hole far above made all of them very grateful that Arthur the Engineer had thought to include this little retreat. As inevitably happens, though, someone had to open their big fat mouth.

"What if this is what they wanted in the first place?" fretted Timothy.

Devin gritted his teeth. He hadn't known Timothy for long, but he knew he had an active imagination. "Don't do this, Timmy…"

"No, really, what if they wanted to force us all down into one little airtight room and pick us off in their own good time?"

"Timmy, sweetheart, please, don't get yourself worked up! I'm sure Arthur and Cynthia and the whole Guard and everyone will come dig us out!"

"Yeah, if they get to us first--"

Gadget shivered, her paw questing for Devin's and finding it cold and clammy, though strong. "Tim, quit it. You're going to give me a heart attack!" A small, reasonable-sounding voice in the back of her head was agreeing with Timothy that she was stuck in a trap, a corner, a blind alley--

Their one source of light, the beam trickling in from the shaft high above, flickered and dimmed for a moment--Gadget snapped her head back and saw a figure silhouetted at the high, small hole.

"Someone's up there!" she whispered, and they all followed her gaze. _This is when they toss the gas in, _she felt before she thought it. _Some of us can't run and the rest won't leave them._

Whoever was blocking the light pushed something down into the shaft like a dark gift, and fled.

Button images by Keith Elder


	28. Chapter 28

****

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"A Brisby dead already?" The wizened paw clutched at its armrest, its owner's voice full of sly and awful hope, though a touch irritated. "This speeds things up. You were just supposed to put a scare into them with that fire. Mustn't be so hasty, Turner, now they'll be out for blood. Yours in particular, I think—Martin and Teresa Brisby know your name, so the others do." The Commander, a deceptively skinny whipcord of a rat, considered springing up and giving Turner another scar, but opted for the diplomatic approach. "I suppose you can't help it—ever since that doctor did his trick on your head, you've been awfully impulsive. Perhaps we should reconsider putting any more candidates through the operation. That's on hold for now anyway, with our doctor dead. Your impatience has gotten us into a bind either way."

__

I'll give you a bind, Turner clicked his tongue. _Bind you with adamantine chains and cast you back into the fiery pit, where you belong. _"It was about time for direct action, sir."

"Are you talking about the Brisby brat, or the doctor?" The older rat smirked toothily, the paw straying, teasingly, toward the pistol-like needle gun lying on the low table by the armchair.

Turner winced, mostly for effect. _You don't scare me any more. I wonder if you realize that and you're just playing with me. Wouldn't put it past you. _"I get your meaning, sir. I didn't trust the doctor--he was having second thoughts about turning traitor." _A big enough lie, and maybe the old monster will buy it,_ Turner prayed.

"He was not born one of us. Finding him dead will be another blow to Justin's pride. It must sting a bit already—that Cynthia creature was on watch. I'll bet right now he wishes he'd never turned over his precious Guard to her, what with his crippled stepson burned to a crisp."

"You mistake me, sir," Turner cut him off. "We set the fire, and it would have killed Timothy if he were alone. This last year the deaf girl's moved in with him, and the pair from Rescue Aid—I hear they all found their way into a safe room." _And one of the coils of rope I left lying around, hopefully—_

The Commander chuckled, half in admiration. "You never tell me the whole story, Turner. What sort of wheels are turning in your head? No, don't answer. But answer this—one of your wrecking crew told me that after you had the fire burning well, you dropped something down an airshaft."

"Who's spying for you?" Turner made a show of lovingly stroking his belt of withered ears. "I'd love to take an ear or two from the snitch."

"It's not in my interest to have him broken and ruined right now. You need to have a deeper understanding of discipline, Turner—too many of my best rats have gotten on your wrong side and ended up crushed. Try reprimands, or assigning work detail—your methods are wasteful."

__

How dare you?! Lecturing me on being more gentle! There's more blood on your paws than I will ever see, and most of it is innocent blood. "You try getting an honest day's work out of these vermin. They think of nothing but a moment's pleasure. Without me to crack the whip, they'd give up your cause and leave you a bitter, defeated old wreck. You're halfway there already, if you ask me."

"Quiet!" the commander snapped. Turner was quite the one for crossing lines today. "Don't talk strategy to me. Don't talk strengths and weaknesses. You're trouble when you think, Turner. I should have had the doctor cut deeper. You'd be more useful to me as dumb muscle." The Commander drummed his claws on the chair, sinking back into it and sighing. He put on a friendlier tone and beckoned Turner closer with a spindly paw.

"I can hear you fine from here," Turner growled sullenly.

"No, no, Turner, you can't. I order you to come here so you can hear me speak gently."

Turner's distrust meter rose several notches, and he stood still. "You only speak gently when you want something."

"Want?" The Commander's body bunched and coiled as he raked at the armrests. "You know what I want. I want you to crush the spirit out of Group A the way you've done to the rest of our enemies so far. I want to put something sharp through Justin's other eye after he sees his twice-cursed pair of half-breeds Matt and Rouse thrown off a cliff. I want to see Elizabeth Brisby-Justin's eyes up close when I put a needle in her heart at point-blank range instead of hoping for a lucky sniping shot next time. I want to make Timothy crawl at my feet and drag himself along with his arms, since his treacherous father Jonathan died before I could get my paws on him. I want to dig up Nicodemus' bones and use his skull for a doorstop." The Commander took a deep and heavy breath, and spread his paws, setting his features into an unsettling approximation of a smile. "But Turner, Turner, I want it done according to plan." He patted the table where the needle gun rested.

Turner cautiously crouched by the table, ready to spring away, keeping his eyes on the Commander. "I don't give this—" he snapped his pawpads with disdain, "—for your plans. You're all for terror and wearing them down by inches—I take direct and effective action and get called on the carpet for it."

"You know what we hope to do, Turner."

__

Quit saying we, you sick bastard! Turner's mind flashed. "Yes, yes, I know," he snarled sullenly. "We need as many of them alive as we can take. But the leaders are expendable--we'll make examples of them. Especially the Brisbys and Justin's brood--mice and half-breeds." _If I play my cards right, you won't be making any more martyrs, you murderer. I would love to turn you into a bad memory._

"My young, impetuous, hot-blooded enforcer, that's what you are. Quite right, we can't destroy everyone living in Thorn Valley; we need as wide a gene pool as possible, within our own species of course." Here he fixed a distasteful glare on Turner again. "You're one to talk about half-breeds, Turner. It was incredibly stupid of you to let that mouse Hackwrench live after your squad had their way with her. Now that she's in Thorn Valley, they're bound to set her to work strengthening defenses. She's good with machines and weapons," the Commander caressed his needle gun with a claw. "As good as I am, maybe better. Given time, she could equip the entire Guard with weapons as silent and deadly as this little toy of mine. She does have the weakness of preferring non-lethal ammunition, but I'd kill her in a second to erase the threat she represents to us."

"What's stopping you?" Turner huffed, though he knew the answer well.

"One of my few soft spots. I hesitate to kill family, though you're pressing your luck lately, son. And I hear she could be carrying your child."

Lightning-quick, the Commander lashed out to pin Turner's massive paw down, snatching the needle-gun and jerking the trigger. With a PFFFFT! sound, a single needle slammed through Turner's paw and into the wood of the table. Turner howled in surprise and pain as blood sprang up through his fur and he wrenched the paw away. The tiny sliver of metal, crimsoned now, stood half-embedded in the table. "What's that supposed to prove?" Turner snapped, stalking away from his father and keeping an eye on the needle-gun. "You're nothing without your coward's weapons. I'll meet you paw-to-paw any day." He ripped away a strip of cloth from his own shirt and began to bind his wound.

"Not with that paw, Turner, and not today." The Commander pried the needle free from the table and rubbed Turner's blood between his pawpads. "As to proving anything--let's just say it proves you need to be more careful where you spill your bodily fluids."

Button images by Keith Elder


	29. Chapter 29

Out Of Range, Chapter 29

****

Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Ages!" the young, thickly-muscled mouse thundered, pounding on the small wooden door, rattling the sign on it. The sign said "Doctors Out", but then again, Dr. Ages and his wife Rosie never bothered to change it. "I need a medic here!" Cynthia Brisby whipped a bloody paw around in warning as one of her shamed, uncomfortable Guard-rats tried to relieve her of her limp burden. There was a rat slung over her shoulder, wounds bound with rough strips of cloth and a sword-belt cinched around one leg for a tourniquet. There was little left of him but a collection of cuts, but he still looked as if his weight might crush her. "Don't you touch him, soldier. I stabbed him—I'll carry him."

The door opened a crack and another mouse popped out. He was pure white with age but a bundle of overactive nerves. "What have you dragged onto my doorstep? Oh, my, what a mess. You should have taken him straight to Rosie over at the hospital!"

"No time, Doc. As you can see, he's pumping blood pretty good." Cynthia forced her way past him into the cluttered mess beyond, shoving books and bowls and glassware off the wide, low table in one corner of the rough-hewn little study. She heaved the bloody rat onto the table unceremoniously, a quick diving catch from Ages the only thing keeping his head from slamming against it. _I've hurt, I've maimed, but I've never killed, _Cynthia thought grimly. _ I don't think this scum deserves another chance at life, but that's not up to me._

"That leg looks bad. I'll do what he can, but he might lose it." Ages unbolted a glass cabinet, retrieving a scalpel and some sizeable stainless-steel clamps. He snapped a pair of latex gloves over his arthritic but steady old paws, and began probing at the rat's injuries.

"Malachi!" Cynthia called to the only Guard-rat who dared linger at the door, with Cynthia's current mood. He came to attention instantly.

"Yes, Ma'am?" He winced, expecting her to turn her temper on him full-force.

"Go tell Justin and my mother about the trouble at Timothy and Tina's."

Malachi scratched his head, relieved. "They already know about the fire, ma'am."

"No, no. Tell them Gadget and the others have themselves barricaded down there behind that rock door. It might take a jackhammer to get them out, if we can't convince them we aren't being invaded."

Malachi threw her a quick salute and turned to leave.

"Malachi?" her voice stopped him.

"Yes, Miss Brisby?"

"Good work back there. We forced a lot of them off the cliff. Quick thinking."

A grin flickered across Malachi's face but didn't take. "Not quick enough," he reminded her. "They caught us off-guard, and we did lose Steven. It's a miracle half our patrol isn't dead."

"Your miracle, Malachi," she called after him, but he was already gone. _He takes things too personally for a second-in-command, _she sighed to herself.

Dr. Ages tied off a neat stitch, blood soaking the fur of his paws even around the gloves. "Well, that's another leak plugged." He began to cut fur away from a nasty wound on his patient's side. The rat jerked and twitched under his paws, breathing shallowly but steadily. "Hold him down for me. He'll tear something open again, the way he's thrashing around." He followed Cynthia's distant gaze and nodded at the empty doorway. "More man trouble, Cynthia?"

Cynthia planted her short but powerful legs like tree roots and flung her arms across the rat's middle. Cords of muscle bunched as she pressed down. "Show me a man who isn't trouble. Including this wonderful specimen. Oh, great, is that mange?" She bent to inspect her paws, specked with flaky skin and twined with loose fur.

Dr. Ages flicked grime off the scissors and held them over a Bunsen burner for a moment. "Only the worst case I've ever seen. You carried him here all the way from the Plateau, did you?"

Cynthia shuddered, wiping one paw on her blood-streaked uniform and scratching at her fur before gripping the rat again. "I'm beginning to regret it. Will he live?"

"He's a mess—a dozen minor wounds. He couldn't crawl away if he tried. But I've dealt with all the bleeders here—the main concern is this lump on his head."

Cynthia grinned. "Hammered him pretty good. Malachi did that with his bare paws." _Strong paws…_

"Yes, quite," Ages murmured, distracted. He pushed the mangled rat's lip up, revealing a cruel jagged pair of incisors. _Damn. I thought as much. _"Cynthia—see the penlight there against the wall? Get it for me." Cynthia dashed over and pushed aside a few piles and packets of dried herbs to get at the miniature flashlight. "Don't do that! I have a system in here—" Ages started, leaving the table and yanking the rough curtains of his windows closed.

"You're lucky I'm Captain of the Guard and not the Fire Marshal, or I'd haul you in. For a mouse, you're the worst packrat I've ever seen."

Ages snatched the penlight away from her. "If you want me to make up a batch of medicine for the mange you're going to catch from this fellow, then don't nag me." He flicked the penlight on. "Get the door."

An artificial twilight settled over the room, dark enough to show the penlight had an odd bulb in it. It did not seem to put out much of a glow at all, but it threw Ages' white fur into sharp relief. Cynthia perked up. "Hey, cool—a black-light! You know, some psychedelic posters, lava lamps, some Pink Floyd on the turntable, and this place would be really trippy—"

"I don't grow those kind of herbs," Ages grunted. "Besides, I'm not looking for an interior decorator right now. Stick to soldiering."

"Hey, I've got an artistic side, too, you know—"

"—shh! Come here and look at this." Ages pushed up his glasses and pointed as Cynthia followed his paw. As Ages pulled the rat's scabby, scarred ear straight and shone the black-light inside, ghostly faded letters appeared in the skin. Most of the tattoo was illegible, but it definitely started with a capital B.

"Don't these guys ever bathe? What's it say, Doctor?"

Ages sighed and looked around the room. He had the sinking feeling that his semi-retirement was about to come crashing to a halt, and that he'd see a lot more of the hospital than his home. "It says we've got a war on our paws, Cynthia, and we're both going to be greatly needed."

Button images by Keith Elder


	30. Chapter 30

****

Chapter Thirty

Turner was in the habit of leaving gifts. He usually left them behind when trouble threatened--when Teresa and Martin had almost single-handedly (or single-pawedly, perhaps) driven Group B from their river-port stronghold in the wilds of Canada, Turner had left them a packet of plans and blueprints. The cold logic of the scheme contained within those pages still kept Elizabeth and Justin up late at night, not the least because it could still be made to work, with the potential for complete disaster.

Twice, at great risk of being ripped to shreds by his own Commander and the whole of Group B, Turner had secretly slipped tools and supplies to Gadget, though she wouldn't have remembered the first time. She had no memory of packing a grappling hook before her sudden descent into the dark, where she'd lost her dear companions--the hook was another of Turner's little touches. Gadget had abandoned the rest of that first small package in her hasty flight through those tunnels--including the gas mask. Turner had only been able to scrounge a single mask, and then he had still feared Gadget would give the mask to one of her friends, sacrificing herself. It was, perhaps, a bittersweet blessing that she never knew about the mask--she could have driven herself to madness, wondering which of her friends she would have chosen.

For an instant, Turner's latest care package nearly did drive her mad, though he couldn't have meant her any harm.

"Haven't you heard of the postal system?" Timothy yelled up, though their visitor had long since abandoned his high perch at the airshaft entrance. Timothy was still rubbing a fresh lump on his head--he had broken the package's fall. As Gadget unwound the tight twine from the bundle that had come down through the shaft (their one source of light and air for the moment) she shrieked and dropped it.

A shriveled, furry thing lay on top of a note like a piece of dried fruit. The note, in block printing, began: "This one hurt you." It was an ear. Gone hard and dark, with a hole punched in it, but still recognizable. Through her fear, Gadget thought,_ Oh, Jesus, it's like some twisted version of the Franklin Mint, the Ear-Of-The-Month club. How do I cancel my subscription?_

Devin's reaction was a little calmer. He steadied Gadget with a paw against one shoulder, then bent to examine the object. He picked it up gingerly between two paw-pads and turned it over, eyeing it closely. For one moment, Gadget had the crazy sensation that he was going to chew on it. He held it out to Gadget and she backed away, waving it off.

"I dobe think thad's a snack, Debbin," Runner eyed the intensely squinting packrat.

"I can understand a secret admirer leaving flowers, or chocolate even," Timothy whistled, "but body parts?"

"You've got a morbid little mind, Tim," Gadget growled, grinning in spite of herself and getting a good paw-hold on Devin's lab coat. "No one better try competing with this guy."

A light smile of appreciation touched Devin's lips, but he took the note gently from her free paw and scanned the rest of it, dropping the ear into one of his lab coat's many pockets. "I'll bet this ear belongs to the fellow we dragged out of the lake," he reasoned. "He was missing one, and the torn edge looks the same. With Turner on the job," he patted his coat, "I just might run out of pockets, or the bad guys might run out of ears. That is, if he's taking his ounce of flesh from everyone who hurt you."

Gadget shivered. _I suppose it's a good thing to know I have some dangerous people on my side._

"Well, Gadget," Devin went on, "I think the rest of this package is yours too--Turner strikes again. I wish he'd leave me something once in a while." A look of longing passed across his face for a moment, not as deep as Gadget had seen, but close. "Cheese. Gouda, straight up. Right about now, I'd almost settle for a bite of that red wax the stuff's wrapped in."

Tina covered her eyes. "Don't talk about food. Everybody smells like a backyard barbecue."

All eyes turned her way. Narrowed, piercing eyes. Tina lifted her paw a little, sensing the sudden stillness to the room.

"What? What did I say? I've been to a barbecue, I didn't say I ate cow. I don't eat mammals--"

Runner made mock horns with his paws against his head. "Moo…Teema's a cabinal!"

"--though I might make an exception for smartass squirrels," she gnashed her teeth, fixing Runner in her sights. Runner whipped his paws down behind his back, all innocence.

"If you're all finished making threats," Gadget coughed pointedly, "there's a lot more to this note." She scanned Turner's businesslike message and began again, out loud.

__

"This one hurt you, but he won't hurt anyone ever again. Ear enclosed. Watch carefully, even inside Thorn Valley--if you see anyone else with a missing ear, or a prosthetic one, then he--or she--"

__

She? Gadget's mind boggled.

__

"--could be a threat. I haven't marked them all. Someone might get suspicious if I did. Speaking of suspicions, ask Justin and Elizabeth about Group B. Better yet, ask Ages. I'd wager they haven't told you. I think their hearts are in the right place, and they don't want to worry you with things they only suspect--we're supposed to be dead, except for Arthur."

"Arthur?" Devin gulped. "I can't believe the old fellow's mixed up in this. His son was the one who got the diving lesson from Turner--but I can't think it would be in Arthur's heart to do anything against the Valley!"

Gadget shook her head. "I only really know Arthur by reputation, but I know he's a fellow builder. His business is creation, not destruction. The mean streak must have skipped a generation with Arthur."

__

"I hear he's had heart trouble--it's to be expected, no time to explain. Ages will fill you in on that. Tell Timothy and Tina I'm sorry about the library."

"Gee, thanks," Timothy huffed.

__

"I hope I knocked loud enough on their door to wake them. The fire wasn't my idea either, though it did make the attempt look serious."

Tina thwapped herself on the forehead. "Someone did knock! Timothy didn't hear it, but I felt it. Turner probably saved our lives when he woke us up!"

Gadget chuckled a bit at the irony. "That's almost funny. He saved my life once by putting me to sleep for a while." She turned her eyes down to the note once more.

__

"If you're reading this, then the strike force I brought with me has gotten away or been killed. I shed no tears for them. There aren't any left who are worth much--second-generation career criminals (no offense, Devin).

"Hey…" Devin started defensively.

Timothy grinned. "I'm liking this guy better and better."

__

If any of Cynthia's guard-rats were hurt in the raid, I regret it. Even in that case, this attack did three things--it let me get you this package, probably reassured my Commander that I'm rash and full of hate for all of you (not true), and served as a wake-up call. Thorn Valley is protected from human eyes, but we--I was born into Group B but I share none of its misguided drive for revenge--see the holes in your defenses. I think it will take both Arthur--if he survives--and you, Gadget, to fill those holes. All your lives depend on it. God bless you and keep you against the coming storm. I will continue to do all I can to confuse and divide the evil that is rising against you.

Sincerely,

Turner

p.s. I made myself scarce when these pictures were being taken. I told the others I was looking for you, but I knew you were safely away. I only send these pictures along because I have discovered that someone in the pictures has orders to kill you after your child is born. It will go against your nature, but you must kill the assassin first. Much more depends on it than the lives of your child and yourself, though I would give my life for either. I may already be lost. T.

Gadget rummaged around in Turner's package and found the pictures. They were like a vicious open-pawed slap to her soul. She forced herself not to crumple them in her grief and shame--shame that welled up in her again for surviving the attack on the Rangers, shame that her logic told her was unfounded but that her heart overflowed with none the less. She staggered back as Devin caught her--he looked over her shoulder and saw what had inspired her silent horror.

Gadget saw the eyes first--a crowd of them, silver-bright in the camera's flash, in faces grinning fiendishly. The eyes of the triumphant rats shone with evil purpose as they crowded around two smaller figures whose eyes were dull in death. Some stood with one foot on their defeated prey, as hunters might. A few of the rats still had gas masks dangling loose from their necks as they jeered and kicked at their unfeeling targets, only able to add insult now. Dale and Chip were far beyond further injury.

__

They came back! Gadget's grip on the pictures tightened in fury, an emotion that felt far better to her right now than that soul-deep shame. _They came back after I left my friends dead down there in the dark! To gloat!_ She heard her voice well up from inside her, a cold and certain voice. "They didn't finish the job. I'm going to make every one of them regrets it."

Devin gently took his paws and turned her face so that she was looking straight into his. "You and I will make them pay, Gadget. Just remember that we're the good guys. If you hold onto enough hate, for long enough, even you might lose a little bit of that light that makes me love you so much. Revenge isn't all we have to live for."

She nodded against his careful paw, a tear trickling into it. "Forgive me, Dev. I don't want to make you sad."

"Sometimes you can't help it," he said soothingly. "I want to share your life, and parts are rough. It makes the good parts stand out better."

She gave him a well-deserved hug. As Devin held her close, he felt a shudder run through both their bodies. _She must be terrified! _ "Hang in there, Gadge."

"Thanks. But that wasn't me," she frowned.

The room shook again, to the accompaniment of muffled rumblings, like pieces of crockery banging against each other inside a distant dishwasher. Timothy's wheelchair rattled back and forth. "Tina, you know I think you can make the earth move, but I don't think that was you, either."

A dull spot of glass suddenly sprang to life by the door, blinking red in dots and dashes. "Morph cobe!" Runner pointed as the others puzzled out his words. He leapt to the doorside, finding a small transmitter button.

"He's right! Hey, Runner—" Gadget grinned, " talk for us and if we get out of here alive, I'll sew that Communications badge back on Dale's uniform for you." Runner nodded eagerly, pawpads poised above the sending button.

This should be entertaining, Timothy signed doubtfully to Tina, who pinched him on the shoulder.

Runner sighted in on the light, sending a short reply letting the person on the other end know they were receiving, and asking them to slow down. "Dey're saying, 'we habe an eclectic jabhacker down here—'"

"Clear as mud," Timothy nodded.

"And … 'it cubs through roks like bubber,'" Runner gritted his teeth and continued to watch the light pulses. "Do I geb an egstra badge for pudding ub with Dimathee?"

"A jackhammer!" Devin snapped his pawpads. "I've used them for building collapses and other rescues. They could reach us, if they wanted to badly enough—"

"—shh! They say, 'oben up or we'll…'" Runner trailed off and went a little red around the ears. _Watch your language, I'm just a kid,_ he tapped out. "They meandt, 'open up or we'll get really mad,'" he said, no one noticing how easily the words came.

"We want an exact translation—" Gadget cautioned.

"No, you dobt," he countered quickly, in a tone that let Gadget know he was right. "Whoebber it is, she cuzzes up a blue streek."

Tina gasped. "She? How can you tell?"

Runner winced as another flurry of light pulses came through. "She sez I neeb helb with my spellig. She can spell lobs of worgs I can'd." He didn't dare repeat half of them.

Gadget recalled Turner's odd warning that even female infiltrators from Group B might be in Thorn Valley. If the visitor knocking on the door with heavy machinery was female, it was still no guarantee of safety. "We have to be really sure, Runner. They might just want to trick us into coming out."

"We're like Schroedinger's cat," Devin murmured. "we don't know if we're alive or dead until we open the door."

"Teema?" Runner called over his shoulder, then turned so she she could see him. "Whoebber's on the udder end—"

"Had better milk for all she's worth," chuckled Timothy.

Runner regarded him coolly. "Stig to your day job az a kook, Dimathee. Yoore no cobedian. Teema, she sed if you dibn't come oub right now, she'b tan yoor hibe an ube it for a thow rub."

"A throw rug?" Tina grinned wide. "I know who that is. And she never would, not really." She took a step toward the door, but Gadget barred her way.

"Waitaminute," Gadget slapped a paw over the heavy door bolt. "Someone threatens to skin you and you want to open up the door?"

"Trust me. She always talks trash but she wouldn't hurt a living soul." Tina's voice was so full of confidence and relief that Gadget took the paw away from the bolt.

Runner shuddered and prepared to send a last message. "I'll leb her know we're cubbing oub." He reluctantly tapped out the message, though whether a reunion or surrender to a terrible fate lay beyond the door, only Tina seemed to know for sure.

Tina pulled carefully at the well-balanced but massive door, and it swung into the room.

In the open doorway, bristling and crouched to spring, stood the largest rat any of them had ever seen, huge burly paws wrapped around the haft of a spiked weapon nearly as tall as himself. The rat's eyes were a mere silver glimmer in sunken sockets, and he looked as if he would be equally comfortable plowing through solid rock with his claws, or ripping, say, a defenseless trio of mice, a packrat, and a Morse-code-tapping squirrel (whether or not he had earned his Communications badge) into unidentifiable pieces.

In the instant Gadget had to think, she was certain that opening the door was the last mistake they would ever make.

Button images by Keith Elder


	31. Chapter 31

****

Chapter Thirty-One

With a horrendous clatter, the massive rat cast aside his huge weapon, which would have tripped him up as he squeezed through. He muscled his way in, shouldering Devin, Gadget, and the others aside as he zeroed in on Timothy like a thundercloud, wrath glinting in his eyes.

Slamming his massive paws on Timothy's shoulders (but with a precise strength, the way a giant might pick up a fly without killing it), the behemoth lifted the terrified mouse out of his wheelchair and shook him a bit.

In the space before the incredibly huge creature spoke, he inhaled--Gadget felt the air pressure in the room actually change as air rushed to fill the great lungs like the bellows of a steel furnace. Heat actually was radiating off his fur--the one shaft of light in the room shimmered with it.

"THEY BURNED THE BOOKS?" rumbled the intruder, quivering like an oak tree in an earthquake. Everyone but Tina plugged his or her ears.

"Sorry, Brutus. We couldn't save any." Timothy meekly cast his eyes down, his legs dangling limply. "Here for my physical therapy?" Brutus' whiskers bristled at him like porcupine quills.

Brutus set Timothy back into his chair--just gently enough not to break him further. "Fine time for jokes, Mister Brisby," the basso voice settled down lower, "I'm going to have to invent a whole new set of library fines."

Gadget tapped Brutus' side, not being able to reach his shoulder. "Am I to assume," she quavered with relief, "that you aren't about to break and batter us to bits, and then laugh mercilessly at our general destruction?"

"No," Brutus glowered down at her, distracted from his interrogation of poor Timothy.

"Then please (gasp) let's continue this outside. You're breathing all our air."

"Hm?" Brutus puzzled this over for a second. "Oh. Sorry. The size thing again." He backed out of the room with some difficulty until Devin, Tina, and Gadget helped push. As he popped into the workroom beyond like a cork, a rush of fresh air hit the room, to the relief of many--the musky smell of large angry rat hung about the place, and in fact took weeks to get out of all the corners.

With Brutus finally out (he retreated into the workroom to poke through book-ashes, truth be told, in furious private tears), another less threatening form popped into the entryway, though the dried blood on her blue medical garb was a bit disturbing. Tina rushed to meet her. "Mom!" she cried. "Thank goodness, it was you sending the Morse code."

Gadget's eyes goggled. The resemblance was uncanny.

"Tina Mouskewitz! Don't you ever scare me like that again," Tina's near-double harangued, but without the faint hints that spoke of deafness in the younger mouse. She grabbed Tina by both forearms, eyes red with worry (and a little lingering smoke). "Locking yourselves up in here, we didn't even know if all of you survived!" Patting Tina's face with a gentle touch that belied the angry words, she turned to face the others.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've--" Devin started.

"Don't give me that, Doctor Packard. I know you just fine. I never forget someone who spills formaldehyde on me."

"Well, you are looking well-preserved," Devin couldn't help saying. "I was about to say, Rosie--I don't think we've all been introduced." Devin squirmed. Rosie was easy to take, in easy times. Right now, her thorns were out in force.

"Still using my stethoscope, too, I see." She sniffed haughtily as Devin unlooped it from his shoulders and handed it to her. She rubbed a pawpad on the stainless steel, lost in thought. "Oh, go ahead and keep it, I don't want your rat earwax," she snapped and pitched it at his head like a bola. Devin yelled in surprise as the tubing slapped his forehead and the stethoscope clattered away. Devin sat straight down as Gadget rushed to his side and shot a dark look at Rosie.

"Anybody hurts Devin, and they answer to me," Gadget bristled.

Devin put a calming paw on her shoulder. "Don't worry, Gadget, she just needed to throw something."

Rosie grinned and a sudden change came over her. "Your fat head makes a handy target." She made as if to kick Devin while he was down, but checked the blow.

"Nice to see you too," Devin chuckled, rubbing his forehead.

Rosie stuck a paw out--Devin took it and she hefted him to his feet. Gadget gasped--it was the same arm she had flung the 'scope with, and it was a withered, undersized thing. With Devin back on his feet, Rosie extended the limb to Gadget, who shook it uncertainly. "You must be Gadget Hackwrench. Don't tell me you've picked Devin here as your next science fair project--"

"Yes," Gadget narrowed her eyes. "A long-term one."

"A specialist in lost causes, I see." Rosie's eyes drifted to Gadget's stomach. "You know, you really ought to work on one experiment at a time. When's the completion date on this little number?" She jabbed a careful paw in the direction of Gadget's waistline.

Tina rolled her eyes. "Mom… you're awful!"

Timothy growled. "That's going a bit too far, Rosie--" He thought to himself for a moment. _Did that just come out of my mouth?_ he signed to Tina, who put a paw to her mouth to stifle a titter.

"Fourteen days from now, as close as we can tell," Gadget grumbled, still not sure if she liked this mouse or not. She tensed as Rosie gingerly prodded the small bulge pushing at the belt of her coveralls.

"Id's not like chegging for ribe wabermelins!" Runner growled. "Be nice!"

"Take it easy, small fry. I know my way around the female body a lot better than you." Runner put his ears back and blushed as Rosie clicked her tongue. "Well, Hackwrench, from one mother to another, I can tell you--those coveralls aren't gonna cut it. Feeling the pinch?"

Gadget nodded furiously. "Oh, God, yes. These worksuits have been like a uniform for years--I don't have much of anything else, not on this trip. And they're impossible to get out of." _Well, nearly impossible_.

"We'll get you some scrubs, the kind that have an elastic waistband," Rosie thought out loud, patting Gadget's stomach gently. "They size scrubs for the rats around here, and I don't think you'll need more than a medium, toward your due date." Her tone was so kindly and full of concern, such an antidote to her former dark mood, that Gadget almost forgot about the stethoscope assault on Devin. Almost.

"So, let's get the lady suited up, Rosie," Devin coughed. "We were supposed to meet Dr. Ages hours ago."

Rosie wrinkled up her nose. "He's attending to some… unpleasant business. You aren't squeamish, are you, Hackwrench?"

"Aside from a little morning sickness, I have a stomach of cast iron," Gadget assured her. "I can take anything you throw at me," she narrowed her eyes a bit, "but just don't throw any more medical equipment at Devin." She stepped closer to Rosie and got a firm, almost biting grip on her blue scrubs. "Ever," she growled. With that, she let Rosie go and stalked past her out of the room.

"Whew!" whistled Rosie, smoothing Gadget's pawprints out of the scrubs. "She's a little bit protective, isn't she?"

Devin nodded after his absent love, with more than a touch of pride and admiration. "She'd give her life for me, and she knows I'd do the same."

"Ahh, mush. It's just her raging hormones," Rosie chuckled. "Mostly, anyway. What does she see in a nutjob like you, Devin?"

"You might as well," drawled Timothy, as Tina pushed him toward the door, "ask what Dr. Ages sees in a crabby, overbearing, sarcastic mouse a quarter of his age, like you?"

"I keep him young," Rosie cackled.

The good doctor's current job was not making him feel his age any less. Not one whit. In what would have normally been a nice shady spot under the trees at the base of the cliffs, just far enough away from the waterfall's spray to not get one's fur soaked, but close enough to stay cool in the mid-day heat encroaching on all sides, Dr. Ages was cataloguing the dead.

There was no nice way to put it. Dr. Ages knew that Cynthia was not easily moved to tears, but surveying the sad debris that was left of the attackers after their long fall--it had hurt Cynthia to realize how far she'd gone to protect the Valley. There wasn't much recognizable in the tangle of fur and flesh, and no further damage for her and her troops to inflict, so Cynthia took off for her own little outpost, back up the cliffs, headed for, in her words, "the longest shower ever". She needed it. She was covered in grime, blood, and who knew what else from the one attacker she and Ages had saved, and she felt absolutely defiled.

Dr. Ages was about to pack it in, himself. He looked a fright--his white fur nearly crimson now from the blood of that one survivor and his less fortunate kin. Everything he'd learned from the bodies was bad news--though the longer fangs and distinctive bunched patterning of whiskers was seen in every individual, and dutifully recorded by his photographic assistant Angela (on loan from the Thorn Valley Sentinel Weekly), none of the other rats bore the telltale ear tattoos. Checking for the fluorescent ink with a blacklight under the noonday sun had been no small trick--luckily the photographer was resourceful in such matters. These pitiful remains were the sons (and daughters, he noted grimly) of Group B rats, or perhaps the grandchildren by now. Group B had been busy, building their strength, and recruiting from the outside as well--many of the rats had a piebald or streaked appearance that spoke of a wild strain in their blood.

__

Of course, we've got a few like that of our own, Dr. Ages sighed. For though he was not a rat, he had worked hard with them to build a new life after the escape from NIMH, and had been there for all the arguments about intermarriage with 'outsiders'. He'd argued that the danger of inbreeding made bringing new blood into the group a necessity--so even among the Thorn Valley rats, there were many of varied shade and hue. Fur color was of no use in spotting a rat in the Valley that didn't belong.

Here and there among the bodies, Ages would stumble upon a dead rat who had worn one of the mysterious gray-and-black outfits. Cynthia had told him that those enemy rats seemed to fight the hardest, and were the only ones with any real skill. Before leaving Ages to his unpleasant task, she had also said something that disturbed him greatly.

"There are a couple of missing stripes on these," she'd pointed out, tracing a paw along one shoulder of a fallen enemy's jerkin, "and the colors are wrong--but if they were green-on-brown instead, they'd be exact copies of our Guard uniforms."

It was just one more oddity in a day that had left Dr. Ages feeling like a whole other story had been going on behind his back. And now, here came two more players in the whole mess, just to muck up the works some more.

Gadget held a handkerchief over her mouth and nose, peering out from above it with wide astonished eyes. She hadn't seen a dead body since she and Devin had made their unpleasant discovery at the lake, and had only once been more horrified at a scene--these rats were strangers, and enemies, but that didn't make her feel any better. _This is only a taste of what a war would be like,_ she reeled at the thought.

It was cut off by a strobe flash. Dots danced before her eyes as she and Devin blinked and glared at the photographer, Angela, her camera warming up for another flash.

"What are you doing that for?" Devin growled.

Angela put her paws up and backed away among the bodies. "Hey, the editor over at the Weekly said to get a couple of shots of you two."

"Do it somewhere else!" Gadget waved her off angrily. "You won't get a good picture of me when I'm trying not to throw up!"

Angela wisely left them alone, returning to her grisly duties, photographing subjects that could no longer object to her methods.

Dr. Ages had noticed the commotion. "What have you brought her out here for?" Ages gestured at Gadget, in place of an introduction. "Didn't you two just nearly die in a fire? My Rosie was worried sick!"

"She's fine, back to her old equipment-flinging self," Gadget offered, the piece of cloth muffling her words.

"Gadget's all right, Dr. Ages," Devin said, not surprised at his reaction. Dr. Ages' medical know-how was constantly advancing, but in other ways he was set in stone. "She's been through a lot, but she's strong."

"I wanted to come," Gadget took the handkerchief away long enough to get the words out. It had not been long enough for decay to set in, of course, but the coppery smell of blood stung her nose and made her think of the caves where she'd lost her friends. "I need to see who we're up against. And if I'm ever going to be a doctor myself, I can't hide from death."

"You're thinking of joining us at the Hospital, I hear." he cocked his head thoughtfully at her.

"Maybe. I don't know if I'm better at fixing machines or living things."

"You had better decide quick," Ages raised a bushy eyebrow, making her frown. "There's a job opening up pretty soon, and I think Justin and Elizabeth will ask you to take it. But first things first." Dr. Ages sized her up, literally. He was a short mouse (though he had been powerfully built in his day) and Gadget stood a head taller than him. She stood pretty firmly, too, he decided, and wasn't going to pass out at the gruesome scene before her. "So, Miss Hackwrench. I hear you might be going through a mixed-species pregnancy?"

She gritted her teeth. "Call me Gadget. It's a possibility, yes."

"Mm-hmm. Well, with the genetic uncertainty and everything else--" Dr. Ages' eyes (and tone) softened a bit, "--everything else you've been through, and the Justins have told me quite a bit--I would consider it a high-risk pregnancy. No heavy lifting! And that's about all there is left to do here."

"How many attackers?" Devin prodded warily at the arm of one of the rarer black-and-grey-garbed bodies, its paw still clenched tight around the handle of a cruel and twisted knife.

"Twenty, at best count." Ages scratched his head. "We've been counting paws and dividing by four--that fellow you're kicking at is the most intact of the bunch."

Devin whistled. "Cynthia really did a number on these guys."

"You're still scraping up the rest, I see," gulped Gadget, as a couple of Valley rats carted up another stretcher-load. One stumbled a bit and Devin leaped to help him. "How are you disposing of them?"

"Mass grave," grunted Ages. "There's plenty of extra space in the cemetery, thank God--the Hospital is good at its work. A few we're saving for genetic tests." He regarded Gadget again. "Speaking of genetic tests, you know, we could try amniocentesis on you--see if we can learn more about the father."

"Any chance it could hurt the baby?" Gadget put a protective paw over her stomach.

"Very slight, but a chance," Ages admitted.

"Then I'm not interested," Gadget said firmly.

Devin came up, wiping his paws and leaving crimson streaks on his lab coat. _There is definitely bleach in this coat's future,_ he grimaced. "I heard that, Ages. Trying to muscle in on my private patient?" Gadget laughed, a welcome sound in that place that had seemed darkened somehow, even in the sun.

"Is that what they're calling it these days? Private patient, my whiskers." Ages chuckled. He saw the way Gadget and Devin reached for each other's paws, the way that they both seemed to stand stronger and taller when they were together. He raised an eyebrow again. _Justin and Elizabeth have that effect on each other--it's what happens when good strong souls get together. We can't afford to lose these two._

As though he'd caught a hint of the old mouse's thoughts, Devin narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. Dr. Ages--you mentioned something earlier, then changed the subject--"

"Did I?" Ages asked, all innocence. "You'll have to remind me."

"Something about Justin, Elizabeth, and plans for Gadget--" Devin prodded warily.

"Yes, you did say something, about a job opening up," Gadget seconded. "It struck me as something you'd rather not talk about."

Ages sighed. "I'd rather not, but there's no way around it. I just got news from the Hospital. Poor old Arthur--I do believe our Engineer is dying."

Button images by Keith Elder


	32. Chapter 32

Out Of Range, Chapter 32

****

Chapter Thirty-Two

Arthur lay in his hospital bed, loving and hating technology. Gadget would have understood his mixed feelings completely—all these tubes and flashing lights and whatnot, what a bother, but sometimes one couldn't live without them.

Arthur could rightly take a little more pride in the workings of the room than the average patient of the Thorn Valley Institute—he had adapted several of the devices himself, when slightly younger (though by no stretch of the imagination 'young'), and had occasionally been a willing test subject for a few. He smiled slightly—it was long enough ago that he could still smile—remembering the time an I.V. pump had nearly blown out a blood vessel. _Mechanically, there was nothing wrong, _he shook his head carefully. _Hook a machine up to a smaller animal than it was designed for—then you get trouble._ Right now, the corrected version of the pump was dripping something into his veins, and he hoped it helped. Medicines and chemical concoctions were not in his repertoire. That was Ages' domain, though that separation of duties hadn't kept him and Arthur from a healthy professional rivalry, usually over matters of space.

In some ways, Thorn Valley was like a ship in a bottle, with a limited space to work in. Arthur mused over the idea for a while. If Thorn Valley really were a ship, then Justin and Elizabeth would be the captains, Timothy the galley cook, Ages the ship's surgeon, Cynthia the mistress-at-arms, and he himself would be the shipwright and carpenter, making sure the rest of the mob didn't knock enough holes in the boat to sink it.

Arthur's body was as scarred and patched as any warrior's. The battle he had fought was not against an army of invaders, and he'd rarely touched a sword… that is, except for beating the metal flat, getting the balance right, and putting a razor edge on it. No, his paws were nearly bare of fur—pink with scars from welding torches, pieces of sheet metal, fumbled tools—and he had never healed quickly or completely, especially from that mishap with the underground steam vent…

He chuckled to himself. How delicious the irony that earning one of his greatest claims to fame in Thorn Valley—saving it from freezing solid that first cruel winter—had nearly cooked him to death. _Rat fricasee. Rat stir-fry. Rat-in-a-bag. Must remember to suggest a few recipes for Timothy, just to watch him turn green…_

The heart monitor screen jumped around a little. It would have frightened the medical personnel, but Arthur knew exactly where the tiny electrical fault was in the monitor. If he could only get out of bed and retrieve a soldering iron—_Even at a time like this, playing handyman. One way or another, I hope I'm out of here soon._

Devin rapped a paw on the open door, and Arthur turned his head. He immediately put away his dark thoughts and motioned Devin over. "Devin! Glad you could come. Sorry we were—interrupted earlier, what with my ticker going out and all. Confounded thing won't keep time."

"You're not a machine, Arthur. I wish you were that easy to fix." Devin strolled over, set his doctor's bag down, and lifted the medical chart off the hook at the foot of the bed. He'd shed the bloodied labcoat and equipped himself with some baggy green scrubs. "Don't talk any more than you have to. Your body's working overtime even when you're quiet."

"Bah," Arthur grumped, batting a paw in Devin's direction. "The heart—it's a pump that drives everything else, bound to wear out one of these days. Speaking of defunct bodies and all, I hear you found the rest of…"

"Your son?" ventured Devin, praying that nothing he said would set the old rat off again, but biting his tongue as he thought of what Arthur's son had done to Gadget, with the others.

"Yes, yes. You know, his fate was sealed at birth—Gwen joked that she wanted to call him Mordred, but I thought Percival was a more fortunate Arthurian-type name, and I won. We tried and we tried, but he never did live up to a knight's name. Probably too many people calling him Percy. Do you have—it with you?"

Devin nodded, sitting on the foot of the bed and pulling the shriveled ear from his doctor's bag. To his shock, Arthur took it from his outstretched paw and grinned toothily. "I never could get him to listen to me when he was alive. Now I've really got his ear!" With a chuckle, he strained over, propped the ear up against one of the get-well-soon cards on his bedside table, then flopped back into bed, panting.

Devin lifted Arthur's limp arm from the bed, checking his pulse nervously. _Pound, pound, pound, pound,_ winced Devin. _Runner would say it sounded like an 'eclectic jabhacker.'_ "You're going to have another coronary right here if you don't settle down, Art. I didn't come here to get you all riled up again."

"I'll—be alright," Arthur's breath came in a whistling gasp. "I'm only dying."

"I've seen your records. That heart won't hold up much longer. Have they talked transplant yet?"

"They? You mean Ages. Yes, he's been at me about that. They haven't found a donor yet—he said something about my genetic whatsis, nobody in Thorn Valley would be a good match."

Devin whistled, shaking a head in regret. _That's right—he comes from the other group, the ones that are our enemies now. I wish the rest of them had seen Thorn Valley grow, and come to love it—more of them might have turned out like Arthur._

"Besides," Arthur went on, "even if they found a matching heart, I'd be stuck in bed for months and I couldn't do my work. I'd go mad."

"Your work," Devin chided gently, "is what got you this run-down. All the lifting and cutting and welding, when any other rat half your age would have had the good sense to rest."

"Once you stop," shrugged Arthur, "it takes too long to get back up to speed. I never stopped." He put out a pawpad and flicked Percival's shriveled ear, out of place among the flowers and cards. "If it could have made a difference with Percy, that's the only reason I would have ever slowed down. I'm sorry he turned out bad. I'm even sorrier for Gadget." Arthur raised a paw suddenly, clutching for Devin and breaking out in tears. "Tell her I'm sorry, Devin. All my life, I never wanted to do anything but help people, and my son, my own son, he hurt her—"

Devin nodded but grabbed Arthur's paw. "You didn't hurt her, Arthur. She wouldn't think like that."

Arthur smiled gratefully. "I hope not. I still feel awful for her. And then you and she had to drag me out of the lake, in full diving gear—you've got a strong one, Dev. You keep her." He wiped his eyes with a corner of the bedsheet.

__

Not a tear for himself, thought Devin. "That's the plan. You know, if this means you're going to retire—"

"Permanently," Arthur murmured, "I should think."

"Don't plan too far ahead. We'll pull you out of this. But you'll need a rest, and I think Gadget might be stepping in."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Justin and Elizabeth off on a recruiting spree? Old-timers around here should all be nervous. Have they turned you into a replacement for Dr. Ages yet?"

"No, no," chuckled Devin. "I doubt one exists. They broke the mold when they made Dr. Ages. By the way, how did he end up with a doctorate? He's good, I mean, but he's older than any school of medicine I know of, at least any school that admits animals…"

Arthur grinned and his slightly bloodshot eyes glittered. A mean streak it wasn't, but a propensity for mischief ran deep in Arthur's soul. "It's an honorary degree. You don't think I went to engineering school, do you?"

Arthur and Devin shared a chuckle. "Self-taught is the best way to go," called a pleasant voice from the hallway.

Arthur winked at Devin. "That must be your Gadget."

Devin scratched his head and thought about it. "Mine? In a matter of speaking."

"He means, we're each other's," Gadget explained, sitting beside Devin and resting her paws on his shoulders. True to her word, Tina's mother Rosie had outfitted her in a pair of blue scrubs, and Gadget's entire being seemed to exude relief at no longer being squeezed into a tight worksuit.

Devin very much wanted to find out exactly how much extra room she had in the scrubs, but this wasn't the time or place.

"So! At last we get a chance to talk shop," Arthur ventured.

"My shop burned down," Gadget kept a straight face as she said it. "How's yours?"

"Ready for you to move in," he replied, a bit grimly.

"Don't talk like that," she pleaded, letting go of Devin's shoulders and grabbing Arthur's paws. "You don't need to be replaced, just repaired."

Arthur gently extricated himself from her grip. "Watch yourself, madam, you'll raise my oil pressure."

Devin rolled his eyes. "What's it with you inventor and tinkerer types, anyway? Always with the mechanical metaphors."

Undaunted, Gadget tossed off another one. "We'll get you running on all six again, Arthur, don't you worry."

Devin scratched his head again. "All six what, exactly?"

"Cylinders!" Gadget and Arthur growled in unison, narrowing their eyes at him.

Devin shielded himself with the medical chart. "Okay! Okay. That's part of an engine, right?"

To Arthur's surprise, Gadget made a curious gesture with her paws. Devin couldn't have been expected to catch it, but clear as day to Arthur, it said, "he's all right, but he is not among the initiated". Arthur made the acknowledging countersign quickly—the exchange had taken place in a couple of seconds, and Devin hadn't seen a thing. _My God, _thought Arthur, careful not to let his shock show. _As if the day weren't weird enough already…_

"Devin?" Gadget tapped on the medical chart and he lowered it to look at her. "I need to talk with Arthur for a moment, alone."

"That's weird—why don't you want me to stick around?" Devin trusted Gadget completely, but he had never felt more like pouting.

"It's mechanic and builder talk. You'd be bored to tears," Gadget reassured him. "Get Arthur something to drink, something light. I'm sure he's tired of sucking everything through a tube in his arm."

"God, yes," Arthur piped up, glad she had come up with a mission for Devin. "Something bubbly—"

"But not too sweet," Gadget tacked on.

Devin stood up, nodded, and quietly tried to work it out. He took slow steps toward the door and waved goodbye uncertainly.

"And keep it simple!" Arthur called after Devin, who turned the corner and was gone before they could tack on another requirement. "Well," Arthur turned his attention to Gadget. "How long do you think it'll take him to come back with a club soda?"

"Long enough," grunted Gadget. "Go ahead and ask."

Arthur thought about stalling for time, but asked. "How in blazes did you ever learn that paw signal? You're a Mason, or the daughter of one."

"Daughter. My father didn't talk much about it. But he told me once, 'If you ever need to ask for help, ask a Mason. If a Mason ever asks for help, help him.'"

"So," Arthur thought out loud, "which is it this time? Offering help or needing it?"

"Both. I had nearly forgotten about the signal, but you seemed like the sort, and I needed your trust quickly. You don't know me too well yet. No offense, Arthur, but you and I both know that this place is riddled with spies, and there are far too many ways for them to come and go freely from this place. You've done a wonderful job keeping the place secret from humans—as a Mason, you know the value of secrecy, like my father did. But animals our size are closer to the ground, quiet and sneaky. Quick to hear, quick to see."

Arthur snorted. "To make this place spy-proof, you'd have to turn it into a fortress. I've tried that route—Justin and Elizabeth have always been against closing our borders--they're convinced it would be permanent, so they won't even do it for an emergency."

Gadget nodded. "Up until now. Enemy rats coming in and nearly burning Brisbys and their guests to a crisp—Liz and Justin are already giving orders to start locking the place down. Justin's on the warpath, I hear from Ages, grumbling about having too many healers on his paws and not enough fighters. Cynthia can work on that part of the problem, but you and I have our own fronts to fight on."

Arthur nodded wearily. "We have to physically seal Thorn Valley up. I was just thinking about the place like a ship in a bottle—it looks like we've got to put a cork in the bottle now, doesn't it?"

"Right. Or one of these days, when Thorn Valley's enemies have got their heads screwed on right, they'll overrun and destroy it, or change it into something evil. I've seen their work first-paw." She shuddered. "Hell, Arthur—I've been their work."

Arthur slumped further into his bed. "Dear God. We have so much work to do, and we're only now waking up to it. It's late in the game, and I'm on the disabled list."

"Let's stick to mechanical metaphors," Gadget grinned, "or we'll confuse poor Devin even worse."

"Why didn't you want Devin to listen in on us? He seems like a smart fellow, and you obviously love him to pieces."

"He is smart, and I do love him," nodded Gadget. "He's pieced together most of the situation himself. He knows the danger we're in, and can help fight it. Devin keeps me strong and heals my hurts. But he's not a schemer and a planner. He deals with things as they happen, and lets them go."

Arthur chuckled. "He hasn't seen as much of the world as you have. You're trying to keep him out of politics aren't you? Keep him honest and innocent? I do believe you find that—cute."

"I find that adorable in Devin, thank you very much," she growled. "Whether I like it or not, he's going to be in this fight, up to his whiskers. He'll just have a few battles to fight that are different than mine."

Devin suddenly flung himself through the door and brought himself to a stop so quickly that his black patent-leather shoes screeched and made marks on the hospital linoleum. His arms were soaked to the elbows in crimson bright blood, which also was splashed here and there across his scrubs. He carried a small ice-chest that rattled as he clutched it to his chest. Gadget stared at him with wide, startled eyes.

"You didn't have to rush back," Arthur broke the sudden silence. "I wasn't that thirsty."

"Not—(wheeze)—here to give you—(gasp)—drink", sputtered Devin. He thrust the ice-chest out with both paws. He took a couple of ragged breaths and got his voice under control again. "Figured you'd—like this better."

Gadget leaped up from the foot of the bed and took the ice-chest from him. She tilted the lid up and actually squeaked in surprise (Devin had never heard her make that particular noise before, but liked it), putting one paw to her mouth.

"N.P.O., Arthur—nothing by mouth, not food, not water," Devin ordered. "We're putting a new heart in you."

"Stat?" Gadget trembled with anticipation.

"Stat," Devin grinned.

Button images by Keith Elder


	33. Chapter 33

****

Chapter Thirty-Three

Gadget woke up thanking God—and Rachel's mother, Rosie—for the scrubs. They definitely weren't the original pair. The laundry at the hospital was probably still trying to get Arthur's blood out of those. Gadget's new choice of wardrobe had already served her quite well—she was beginning to need the room. It took an extra little stretch to reach across the operating table and help Devin—it was the first time she truly noticed how much her stomach had grown.

It hadn't been the first time that she'd seen the inside of a chest cavity. Her search and rescue work had seen to that; the few times she'd gotten such a glimpse before, the would-be patient was too far gone for her to make a difference. It had nearly broken her heart more than once, when she and the Rangers hadn't been able to get injured rescuees back to the City doctors quick enough. So many lives had slipped through her paws—many of them, lives she had shared and loved. Devin had begun, by way of Arthur, to calmly show her how to tighten her grip, so to speak.

It was definitely the first time she had seen a heart go from a cold, still thing—lying on a bed of ice in a Styrofoam cooler—to a pulsing, functional organ in its proper place. The whole operation had appealed to her mechanic side, the side that always marveled at how much better a system tended to work with quality parts. Devin had put his paws on hers and guided her by feel and sight to all of the major connections to and from the old heart as he undid them, and the new heart as he sutured them in—aorta, vena cava, pulmonary arteries—

Gadget already knew more about the inner workings of the heart than she realized, but as they went along, Devin put a name to each. He had a way of making her feel clearer and surer of herself, but didn't push.

Halfway through the suture-work, sure that she'd like to do more than feel or observe, Devin asked her if she felt confident enough to do some precision stitching—she responded by putting in a line of sutures so even and true that it looked like the artery had been zippered seamlessly into place. He gave her some pointers, but let her finish. Her steady paws, smaller than his own, seemed built for it.

How strange that Arthur's life had been saved by the opening skirmishes of a war! Cynthia and her Guard had cut their one surviving prisoner into ribbons, and Ages had done all he could to save him for questioning, but it hadn't been enough. His efforts had turned into a salvage operation, Devin leaping in to help secure the organ.

"Well, that's another gift from Turner," Gadget had chuckled. "He was the one who led the raid, and gave his own patrol away on purpose." It bothered her a little that any creature would be taken to pieces for spare parts, but bothered her less once Devin had told her the donor was missing one ear. Several of the outsiders were marked in that way, Turner's work—they'd been some of the band responsible for killing her friends, the Rangers, and for the horrors she had endured herself…

"So, Turner's chosen them especially for hopeless missions likely to kill them off," Gadget chuckled, half in admiration and half out of nervousness—she was holding something and had run out of places to sew it back in.

Devin called for suction, and to Gadget's relief she saw where the loose end belonged. "I hope none of them put two and two together—that might be the end of Turner's lucky streak. That's right, Gadge, keep up the stitches, just don't close that off all the way--"

By the time the surgical team had closed up, Devin had Gadget's mind buzzing and whirling , with a sense of what being a full-fledged doctor could mean. Gadget found few things more exciting than to have her mind in motion with new ideas. She resolved to thank Devin well in private.

The day caught up with her before she was able to make good on the plan. She crashed without eating dinner (Devin chided her gently for it, reminding her that she was eating for two, but she fell asleep and missed his lecture).

Timmy and Tina hadn't been able to sleep in the cave-house, as the smoke smell and damp from the fire-fighting efforts had made their quarters quite unpleasant—but just as it had been designed to do, Gadget's inner sanctum had kept out the worst of it. Gadget and Devin would have discovered that they both snored like asthmatic elephants when truly tired, but they were blissfully unconscious all the night through, wrapped as tight in each other's arms as one of Gadget's sutures.

This morning, Gadget was stretching and yawning and absolutely ravenous. That her hosts had been forced out of their own home struck her as a pity—but Timmy in particular she missed, not for his cheery upbeat attitude (she chuckled) but for breakfast. Timmy would be making breakfast for Tina, Justin, and his mother this morning, after spending a night sleeping alone (house rules, definitely Justin's).

__

Oh, well, she shook her head, its fur in much need of untangling, _I flip a mean omelet._ She vaguely wondered if fresh eggs were something one could get in Thorn Valley, and what the local bird population thought about it. She'd already sounded Timmy out, and yes, Thorn Valley did have cheese makers, of sorts. He had shuddered when he mentioned them, and advised her against trying their wares, unless she liked nasty surprises. "Practice makes perfect," he'd winced. "Let them practice some more first."

Devin stirred next to Gadget. "Hm. You're up first? What a surprise. I thought we were going to have to find you a cot at the hospital."

"I suppose I overdid things a bit. What with sorting through the mess at the cliffs with Dr. Ages, and assisting on my first heart transplant—"

Devin blinked sleep out of his eyes, opened one, and narrowed it at her. "You're go-go-go all the time, Gadget. You can't do that up until your due date, or you'll give out and I'll have to confine you to bed. Doctor's orders. I don't think you want it to come to that."

"Just as long as you come visit," Gadget insinuated, smoothing his whiskers back. "Any chance you get."

"You know, if it weren't for sheer willpower, I'd never get any work done," he pried his other eye open and sighed as he got a better look at her. _Now, that's something to wake up to._

"I can't even think about work until I get some breakfast," Gadget enthused. "Let's go raid the mess hall. They have one, don't they?"

"Firemen, soldiers, and all those who keep watch—no matter where in the world they are, they have a kitchen. Let's go find it," Devin agreed.

Looking like a bona-fide medical team, Devin and Gadget strode out of their sleeping quarters in fresh scrubs. Over his own pair, Devin still wore the frazzled, many-pocketed lab coat—he swore there was no substitute for a few things in his pockets. Gadget liked the hospital clothes better and better—like the pair that wore them, the scrubs were adaptable, quick, practical, but colorful. Rosie had even cut down a few pairs of scrub-pants just to her size. Scuffling through the mess outside their door, though, she feared that they'd have to stop by the hospital for yet another fresh change—the soot and grime from the fire (and the efforts to put it out) seemed to creep up her ankles and trail along with her paws if she happened to touch anything.

To their joint displeasure, someone else was stirring up the ashes.

The pop and singe of a camera flash illuminated one wall of Gadget's would-be workroom—a light snicker following, courtesy of an uninvited guest with press credentials. "Angela? You again?" Devin gave the grinning rat his best steely, disapproving glare.

The photographer whirled, startled for a second, but settled back as if she belonged. She pulled a twisted piece of metal from the pile of ruined tools she'd been taking pictures of, and scratched her back with it.

"Do Justin and Elizabeth even know you're down here? You're a sneak." Gadget sniffed. "What's more, you're a pest."

"Just doing my thing. What do you two know?" Angela smirked, picking something out of her fur and rubbing it on the wall. She went back to scratching. "You've been here for a few days and you act like you own the place. Ah, found the spot." She tossed her makeshift back-scratcher aside and clambered to her feet, camera at the ready.

"You have no business down here," Devin ignored her, "and we don't have time to waste on you." Click. Flash. He rubbed his eyes—like the rest of him, they were getting touchy.

"No time for questions? Inquiring minds want to know." Angela's eyes gleamed with sudden whirling thought as she brought her face up from behind the camera. "So, Devin, I hear your parents are famous thieves."

"This isn't an interview," Devin growled.

"Says you. Last time the police beat them to a pulp, didn't they come crawling onto your doorstep, bleeding and whining and carrying on?"

Devin gasped like he'd been kicked in the chest. Angela apparently liked the look, as she snapped another picture. "They nearly died. It's not news, and it's not a joke. How dare you?" Gadget grabbed for him as he lunged forward, catching him by the scrubs.

"Me? Dare? What about you? Harboring felons is still a crime, last time I checked." She skittered out of reach as Devin pulled an arm back to swipe at her, then thought better of it.

"Boy, you turn nasty when there's no one else between you and your victims, don't you? Muckraking paper-pusher!" Gadget strained to hold Devin back.

"Brainless bimbo," Angela replied, brushing soot off her paws.

"No-talent hack," Gadget grunted.

"Rat-lover!"

"That one's a compliment, sleazeball." Gadget was holding her own verbally, but Devin was dragging her forward.

"You should be proud of that one. You've had so many," Angela hissed. "Or should I say, so many have had you." Gadget's whiskers drooped. This had gone way past personal. Pleased with another reaction shot, Angela clicked the shutter again, popping the flash. "Oh, yeah, that's classic."

Devin wriggled free and towered over Angela, who suddenly no longer looked so comfortable. Devin's paws clenched and opened; he had never felt more like pulverizing someone. He flung his arm around, not to hit her, but to point toward the exit. "Get out! I swear to God I'll break that camera, or something else that deserves it. Scram!"

In a flash, Angela suddenly lashed out with a backhand blow, catching Devin's cheek. Three furrows of blood sprang up from his fur in an instant. Just as quick, without his thinking about it, one of his paws shot out and caught half her whiskers in a ferocious grip. She dropped the camera, its flash going off once more as it caught a shot of the ceiling.

"Stop, both of you! Devin, let me see—" Gadget tried to get closer, but Devin wobbled back and forth keeping Angela at a distance.

Angela immediately began raking at his arm, drawing more blood, but he pulled tighter and she dropped to her knees, shrieking and kicking at his shins. "Who's whining and carrying on now?" Devin asked. "Try that again, and I'll pull them out by the roots." He shook her a little. _Damn, that hurts! Got to get Betadine on that…_ Not going anywhere, her body twisted up like a corkscrew, Angela seethed but went still. Devin had the upper paw, for now.

"Devin," Gadget finally got a fix on his arm and grabbed it, "let her go. She'll just leave." She reached up to survey the damage to Devin's face, but frowned. _Three marks, and that little twist at the end—where…_

"No one's ever talked about you that way before, Gadge, not when I had to listen to it. Besides, if you didn't notice, she just shredded my cheek—"

Gadget had more than noticed. Her eyes went wide as she scanned Angela's face. _Oh God, oh God, she knows me—very, very well—_

"Devin," Gadget quavered, clutching her own shoulder. "She's m-more than a pest."

"You remember?" Angela spoke up, with honest surprise. "Oh well," she chuckled. "It was fun while it lasted." She looked up into Devin's face and cold-bloodedly flung her head back, leaving him with a paw-full of whiskers. He instinctively grabbed for another hold and got a grip on one of her ears.

It held for a second and then snapped away. Devin fell back at Gadget's feet and gaped at the ear, a cunning thing shaped from velvet and leather—but a cry of surprise and fear from Gadget shook him back to attention.

Angela, one ear a ragged stump, leapt toward them with a screech, in each paw a ruined tool—blackened by fire, but sharp enough for cutting.

Button images by Keith Elder


	34. Chapter 34

****

Chapter Thirty-Four

Devin, startled and winded as he was, managed an instinctive kick as Angela hurtled toward him and Gadget. It wasn't a well-aimed kick, but it sent Angela tipping over at just enough of an angle that when she slammed the twisted bit of metal into his flesh, she pierced his wrist instead of his chest. It bit straight through fabric, fur, skin, between two bones Devin could have told you the exact names of, and into a crack in the heavy stone blocks that made up the workroom floor. It sank home with a grating crunch.

Wasting no time, Angela left him pinned like an insect on a piece of Styrofoam and stalked after Gadget. Devin screamed in pain (who could blame him?) and tried to pull himself off the spike, but felt tendons and muscles catch and tear. It took every bit of willpower he possessed to not flail about in panic.

Gadget had not been standing idly by as Angela made her leap. For an instant she had considered throwing herself over Devin, but without thinking had instead slapped her paw on the nearest potential weapon. It was a can opener, the old kind that people used to call a church-key. It looked pitifully small in comparison as Angela approached with the sooty but still formidable piece of metal, which Gadget's mind insisted on identifying as an air-hammer chisel. It was nearly a small spear, and she lashed out with it, the cruel tip raking Gadget's arm as she twisted away.

His eyes running, Devin watched as Angela toyed with Gadget, just out of reach. Gadget stumbled and nearly fell, her sense of balance off-kilter from the extra weight she carried. _God help me, she's going to kill Gadget _and _the baby! _A red mist of helpless anger washed over him, alternating with waves of blackness that rose and fell with the throbbing pain in his arm.

"What do you want?!" Gadget cried.

"Not what you think," Angela hissed. "Not yet. You've caught his interest." Angela twirled the chisel around in one paw like a baton, gripping it with the blunt end facing out.

"Who?!"

"You'll find out. He's waiting for you now, Gadget. The last time you met, he was in a bit of a rush…" She raised the chisel overhead and swung at empty air as Gadget made her move, stepped in close, and drove the churchkey into Angela's shoulder. Angela snarled, ripped the piece of metal out like an offending splinter, and whipped the chisel around in a sudden arc. She caught Gadget just above her left temple and spun her head around—Gadget thudded into the cinders and ash at her feet.

Devin screamed with a deeper pain than the one in his arm as Gadget slammed into the stone floor and lay still. Between agonizing stabs of pain, Devin saw, and cursed himself for not seeing before-- Angela was not out of reach after all, but reaching her would cost him dearly. Taking a deep breath and swinging his legs violently, Devin wrenched himself around on the floor in a desperate arc, pivoting his wrist on the spike and screaming in pain and fury.

He caught Angela straight across the back of her legs with his own, knocking her feet out from under her and sending her sprawling into a heap. The chisel clattered away as Angela growled, more in irritation than in pain. She stood and dusted herself off, Devin stretching toward her with every muscle, wanting to feel his paws close on something vital and squeeze. But in his last effort to stop her, Devin had done himself grievous harm—he felt a warm puddle of blood spreading beneath his abused body.

"Leave her alone! Just let me get a paw on you—"

Angela slid away warily, shaking her head. "You've only got one left. Points for style, but you lose. I don't think you'll be doing any more heart surgery any time soon." Angela turned to retrieve her chisel, but someone stamped a footpaw down on her arm.

Angela didn't even try to get away. She looked up in puzzlement. "Hey! You were supposed to be backup!" She tried to stand, but was instead snatched off her feet by the second-largest rat Devin had ever seen in his life. He was not a huge hulk of a creature like Brutus—but he was tall enough to lift Angela completely off her feet and take her in a vicelike grip, squeezing most of the air out of her.

Devin cast a glance at Gadget. She lay there so still and so quiet, blood and ashes streaking her fur. Devin felt his heart in his throat, and could make no sound to call to her, if she could have heard.

Angela was not going quietly. She squirmed and writhed in the newcomer's deadly embrace, raking at the bigger rat's face with her claws and kicking against his sides. Devin saw something come sliding along the floor toward him—it bit into his pinned arm and brought fresh pain. It was the chisel, and the big rat had kicked it toward Devin.

"Hold it—hold it up! Brace against—floor!" managed Devin's would-be savior, through mouthfuls of flailing fur.

"Are you insane?" Devin howled back. "I can hardly move!"

"Do it!" the other rat commanded.

Shakily, Devin managed to get the chisel on end and look away as the big rat hefted Angela and slammed her against the floor. Devin felt a rush of blood drench his paw—_Oh my God, we impaled her!_—and let the chisel go.

Angela curled up around the chisel that had run her through, looked as if she might pull it out, but made one terrible arching movement with her whole body, screamed like something out of Hell itself, and lay still.

The big rat bent down and looked Devin in the face. His head was a tangle of half-healed cuts and the new ones Angela had given him. His teeth were sharp needle points in massive jaws, but the eyes were kind.

"Turner?" Devin managed weakly.

"Yes. No time for formal introductions." Turner spun about and saw to Gadget—she was breathing all right, and the cut wasn't deep—she did have a nasty bump on her head.

__

Just once, I'd like to show up before_ she's knocked around…_

"Gadget! What did Angela do—"

"She'll be all right, I think—we have to get you both out of here."

"I can't—going out," Devin explained, seeing only a vague outline of Turner now, going down into the depths of unconsciousness and only holding on out of sheer willpower.

"If Cynthia and the Guard catch up with me, they'll probably kill me on sight. Angela's friends are closer than that—if they find me, they'll kill you and I both—and I don't think you'd like where they'd take Gadget. We have to go." Turner wrapped a massive paw around the spike holding Devin's wrist in place.

Devin made small sounds of negation but Turner pulled. Devin was far away from the pain now, as if someone else were hurting. Best not to ask. His sight skewed to one side as Turner folded Devin's mangled arm against his body. "Tourniquet," Devin croaked.

Turner nodded and tore a strip off his own huge but ragged shirt. "Do you know a good tailor? Everything I've got is out of fashion," rumbled Turner absent-mindedly as he cinched the tourniquet tight around Devin's arm.

Devin nearly smiled for a second—_Maybe you can pick up something Brutus grew out of—_but caught sight of Gadget again, inspiring a fresh flood of tears, though his whole body was beginning to feel numb.

Turner glanced over at Gadget. "She'll be all right. She's been through worse before, some of it my fault."

Without another word, Turner wrapped a strong and sinewy arm around Devin's pain-wracked body and lifted him off the bloodied floor. Devin registered a faint sense of disbelief as Turner bent again and repeated the trick, this time retrieving Gadget's limp form and somehow managing to stay upright.

"Where—" whispered Devin.

"The deep tunnels," Turner huffed, shuffling forward at a good clip. "There are secret ways in and out. Too many." Turner looked down at his burden and saw that he now carried two unconscious and bleeding creatures. He shook his head, hoped that Angela's cohorts would be too busy sorting out the mess behind him to pursue him into the depths, and plunged headlong into the dark yawning cavern. His well-trained whiskers set him on a trail that Timothy and the others had always assumed was lost in the heart of the cliffs. _I'm deep in this, and getting deeper. I can take the pain when I'm finally found out, God…I'm prepared for that. But this body you've given me, they will do terrible things with. All I want, all I pray, is that you let me save these two, even if it costs me what little time I have left. They are so good, and I've already hurt them more than they know._

Justin's claws were half-buried in Elizabeth's desk as he leaned on it, all the wind knocked out of him. The haunted look that Elizabeth saw so seldom, and that frightened her so badly when she did see it, was stamped on Justin something fierce.

"Kidnapped," he said, tasting the word and finding it bitter. "What sort of five-and-dime operation are we running here? Persons unknown come and go without a sound and kidnap our guests? Damn it all!" Justin swept a paw through stacks of papers that Elizabeth should have dealt with a week ago—expansion plans and petty memos that meant nothing unless some sort of basic safety could be maintained.

"You're going to blame my daughter soon. I hear it coming." Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, making it creak. She tapped a paw against the armrest, waiting for it.

Justin bunched up a sheet of parchment, but let it go and absentmindedly smoothed it flat against the desk, feeling his own claw-marks through the page. _Arthur made this desk, spent a month on it just to see a friend smile. You can scar a beautiful thing with anger, so try to go gentle, even when you feel like a fool. _"No," Justin said glumly. "It's not Cynthia's fault. She has a small, well-trained force, the heart of the old Guard--it's all we've needed for years."

Elizabeth was a little surprised. "I thought you'd take it worse. Devin and Gadget were under our protection—they were on loan to us from Rescue Aid, and even the loan was a precious gift. I don't know how much you've talked with Arthur about Gadget's notes--"

"I haven't wanted to tire him out," Justin offered, tapping his pawpads together. "Though he seems determined to get to work. Gadget lit a fire under him."

Elizabeth nodded. "She found our blind spots. Some of them, at least. She was right—we have to bring in reinforcements and then lock this place down. "

"We never wanted this to be an armed camp!" Justin snapped. "We didn't plan on anyone drumming up a vendetta against us and not telling us why! And don't look so wounded, you know I'm only angry with myself."

"Devin and Gadget might not be dead, Justin. We have to hold onto that hope."

"If they aren't dead, they're hurt, and in the paws of the enemy."

"An enemy that pins someone to the floor and then carries them off? At the very least, it's an enemy that sounds confused. We don't know the whole story," Elizabeth soothed, taking a stack of random parchment from Justin's paws and putting her own over them.

"No," Justin agreed. "We don't know everything. But we have to tell Rescue Aid what little we do know." He surveyed the damage he'd done to Elizabeth's filing system, such as it was. "What did they offer us, again?"

"Weapons, training, military personnel and medical too if we need it—"

"We have enough doctors."

"Not enough for a war. Besides, we're missing an important one, one that didn't belong to us in the first place."

Justin winced. "I suppose I deserved that. So, we need outside help. Are we ready to pay the price for it?"

Elizabeth held up her right paw and began to sing in a clear, calm voice. "R-E-S, C-U-E, Rescue Aid So-ci-et-y…" She broke off and chuckled. "We had better start teaching that in the schools, if we're accepting membership."

"They'll give us new rules and pry into all our business," grumbled Justin.

"That's assuming we all survive and have business to pry into," Elizabeth pointed out.

Justin groaned. "You're determined to talk me into this, aren't you?"

"If it means one more pair of paws to fight our enemies, or one more set of eyes to search for Gadget and Devin, I say Rescue Aid can pry all it wants," Elizabeth cautioned.

Justin put his paws up. "Okay, okay. Just one problem. Who do we send to tell Rescue Aid we've lost two of their operatives, but that we want to join forces? Who on earth could keep a straight face doing both at once?"

Elizabeth grinned. "You want a straight face? I have a likely candidate."

Button images by Keith Elder


	35. Chapter 35

****

Chapter Thirty-Five

"No," Timothy said, and he would have put his foot down if he could move his legs.

"You know why Elizabeth had me ask you," Tina smirked. "You have a hard time saying 'no' to me. You just did it, but I'm sure that wasn't a final 'no'."

"Do you have any idea how hard it would be to get a wheelchair onto one of those Albatross Air flights?"

"They could haul you up on a rope," Tina reasoned. She always had a practical answer to Timothy's excuses, which was another reason Elizabeth had asked her to work on him. "Or they could send two seagulls—one could pick you up and put you in the other one's seat. There are going to be enough passengers for two anyway—Thorn Valley isn't a very safe place to be these days."

Timothy grunted. "Just like, well—rats leaving a sinking ship. If it's going down, I'd rather be here when it happens."

"We're going for help, really," Tina pointed out. "Thorn Valley needs a voice for the outside world, if it's going to be a part of bigger things."

Timothy's eyes wandered to the tapestry on one wall, Justin's work, showing a Timothy from long ago, whose legs still worked. "You'd think," he replied glumly, "they'd choose someone fully functional who didn't take so much looking after."

"That's why I'm going with you, Timothy," she said, without hesitating. "They aren't just sending a body. They wanted a heart and a brain, too, someone stubborn enough to look out for everybody. And don't underestimate the power your name still carries--when people hear 'Brisby', they think about fighters and survivors."

"And, of course, my brother Martin, who happened to marry my sister." Timmy looked at the tapestry again. _Hmpf. Justin really did have Martin and Teresa hold hands. A touch of prophecy there, methinks…_

"That's not the first thing they think of, Timmy. At least we know you and I aren't blood relatives--we checked the lab records." She smiled and touched his arm lightly. "Brisby is a name I'll be proud to share, one of these days, and sooner rather than later."

"That's the plan, lady," Timothy flashed one of his rare smiles. "I'd rather marry you in peace-time, though, when none of us are on the move or on the run."

"You don't have that kind of patience," she reminded him.

"Tibby dosn' hab much payzunch at all," Runner chimed in. He'd been listening through a nearly-closed door, grinning--the two older animals were happy to see that. He hadn't smiled much since finding out about Gadget and Devin.

"Well, come on in, hero," Timothy called.

"What, was Runner listening in?" Tina, of course, was more vulnerable to eavesdroppers because she never heard them, whether they were being sneaky or not.

"He knows us pretty well by now, I think," nodded Timothy. "Divided loyalties, murder, betrayal, incest, you know, all the usual."

"And yoor moobing again, dat's prebby usual my now." growled Runner, popping out of the door. "Seebs like ebrybody jus' gets seddled before subthing habbens."

Tina nodded. "Nobody around here gets much of a chance to rest. First the fire, now Timmy's new assignment…"

"They didn't assign anybody anywhere," Timmy gripped the armrests of his wheelchair hard enough to leave clawmarks, "they asked me for a favor."

"Asked us for a favor," warned Tina, shaking a paw at him. "We come as a package deal."

"Are you two done threbening each other?"

They looked at him blankly. Runner hated that. "Threb--" they started in unison.

"Threbening! Jeez! Gwowling and bistling ab each udder."

"Gwowling and Bistling," whistled Timothy. "Sounds like a law firm."

"Oh, leave him alone," Tina interrupted. "We have serious business."

"This is serious," Timothy deadpanned, leaning forward and jabbing a paw at Runner. "Poking fun is a respectable art."

"Respebbacle?" sputtered Runner haughtily, paws clenched.

Timothy winced. "Well, you've got a point."

"I mean," Tina continued, undaunted, "since we've been chosen to represent Thorn Valley at Rescue Aid, Runner needs to decide whether he's coming with us or not."

"Well, what about it, kid?" Timmy settled back in his chair. "I promise, I'll hold myself down to three Runner jokes a day, no matter what."

Runner was genuinely touched. He knew that reigning in his overactive tongue was a true sacrifice on Timothy's part. It was almost enough to make him say yes, but he shook his head. "Can'd. Soubs like a lobba fun, but somenun's got to keeb an eye on Amgela."

Timothy and Tina 'hmm'ed and nodded in agreement.

"That was an awfully close thing, Runner. If you hadn't gone to check, Angela might have died down there."

Runner shivered. He remembered calling out for Devin and Gadget, and what he'd found, instead… and how Angela had latched a paw onto his cast and bubbled those words through blood-streaked teeth, _"Tell them--tell them Turner did this…"_ before collapsing back and trickling red foam onto the floor. To his credit, Runner trusted Turner more than Angela, without ever having met him. He'd kept his mouth shut and told everyone Angela had been unconscious when he found her.

"I'm sure she'll want to thank you in person when she wakes up." Timothy wheeled over to a low bookcase and flipped through a random book, then grinned and tossed it at Tina, who caught it without looking. "Those reflexes are scary! I love it when you do that," marveled Timothy, as Tina shook her head at him.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Mister Brisby," Tina said frostily, "that you take extreme pleasure in the weird things people do without thinking?"

Timothy spread his arms wide. "Hey, look at the company I keep." Turning back to Runner, he shrugged. "Too bad you don't feel like coming, kid. Hey, I suppose you were just starting to get used to Thorn Valley. It's a big place, don't hang around the Institute all day."

"Angela's in good paws, Runner," Tina reassured him. "I'm sure you'll want to keep an eye on her--"

__

More than you know, thought Runner grimly.

"--but move around, meet some people, have a little fun."

"Hawd to welax with ebrybody so jumpy." Runner sighed. "An' I really miss Debbin and Gaddit."

"Wherever they are, they're together," Tina tried to sound sure of herself. "And I'm sure they'll be all right."

"The best thing you can do for them," Timothy added, "is to keep an ear to the ground. Next time you're listening in on a conversation, don't let anyone know you're there." Timothy looked at his own paw for a moment and counted off a few pawpads. "There are a few rats and mice here you can trust without a second thought. Justin and Mom are two, but never tell anything to one of them that you don't want the other one to know. Roger the boat-keeper can keep his mouth shut, but he's also one of the best sources of outside news you'll find. Don't trust anything you read in the Thorn Valley Sentinel, unless it's in the gossip column, which is right half the time."

"I can'd reed too good."

"That's all right. Find someone to read it to you." Timothy counted on his pawpads again. "Okay, so much for basic survival tips."

Tina crossed the room and threw her arms around his neck from behind, leaning over to give him a kiss on the forehead. "Silly mouse. No wonder you were Justin and Elizabeth's first choice. And you said you didn't know a thing about politics."

"That wasn't what I said," protested Timothy. "I said I didn't want to know."

"I think I know what pawaticks is," Runner murmured, noticing a bloodstain on the side of his cast for the first time. He picked at it with a sour expression, remembering now how Angela had left it there. "Pawaticks is like a gabe where sumbuddy always gets hurdt on purbose."

It was probably a wise--and definitely a cautious--decision that Runner had made, by not telling anyone his suspicions about Angela. She was not a direct threat to him, or to anyone else, in her current state. One punctured lung, severe internal bleeding, and a broken arm had seen to that, courtesy of Turner and Devin. As such--a critical patient unable to move about or put up a fight--she was treated just like any other badly mangled specimen who might pass through the Institute's massive doors. After tremendous lifesaving surgical efforts, she was put in the intensive care unit, and would have instantly recognized her suitemate.

Arthur was still recovering from his heart transplant, but he was more energetic than he'd been in quite a while, and was none too pleased with the company. Angela had been a thorn in his side for quite a while--always slinking about with her camera, taking pictures of anything and nothing, sometimes taking pictures just to appear busy. Arthur did not like Angela, simply because she was a snoop and often in the way during delicate construction projects and assembly of machinery--had he known her true nature, he would have dropped a house on her. Heaven knows he had the equipment to do it with, and he'd dropped one before (not that it was his fault).

Arthur, unable to sleep due to one of the dozen or so medications he was on--and frustration at being confined to bed while others strengthened defenses--merely sat there in the dark and watched her breathe. Her breath came in fits and starts now and then--a nurse came and checked her, every fifteen minutes, for precisely that problem, though it didn't look as though her breathing would go ahead and stop.

__

She looks absolutely innocent lying there, thought Arthur. _Not surprised in the least to see that one here--looks like all her prowling and shutterbugging finally caught up to her._ Arthur sighed and flipped on a reading light, pulling out a few blueprints from a stack propped up against his bed. "Defensive Positions--Reinforcement" was the one he settled on, pulling his stitches a bit as he retrieved his glasses. The sound of Angela's breathing, coming now and then in staccato gasps, was a bit too distracting, so he gave up after a few minutes and put the blueprints aside. He checked the clock on the wall and nodded. _Every quarter-hour she has a breathing problem. Great attention-getter, Angela. You've got my attention._

He waited long enough to be sure, and then called out to her. "You've been awake a while, Snappy," he needled.

__

"Don't call me that," came the whisper of a voice that still dripped venom.

"Why don't you come over here and make me stop?" chortled Arthur. "Oh, all right, I'll be fair. Get some sleep and you'll be back to faking pictures of two-headed babies in no time, for that horrible rag of a newspaper."

__

"Lucky…I can't move. Let me at you and I'll turn you into spare…parts."

"You're one to talk. Then again, if I were you I wouldn't talk at all, it would probably hurt. Did you know you're missing an ear?"

__

"Photo lab…accident…" Angela spat.

"Ah," said Arthur, brightening a little more. "So that's why all your pictures turn out so badly."

An angry hissing like a sack full of snakes was his only reply. Satisfied and more at peace with himself, Arthur turned off the light and settled into a blissful sleep. The metaphorical sack of serpents did not fade, however, and followed him into the realm of dreams.

As he furrowed his brow, behind closed eyelids he dreamed that Angela wriggled apart into a sliding, scaly mass of vipers, freeing themselves from the bloody medical gauze and flimsy gown. A couple of them twined around an I.V. pole by Angela's bed, doing an impersonation of the Thorn Valley Institute's caduceus logo. For the most part, however, they thudded and slapped onto the clean linoleum tile of the hospital room, coiling and raking their bodies in his direction, glossy eyes fixing him with their stare.

They welled up around the base of his bed, a dark flood--they crept, tongues flickering, beneath the bedsheets and rustled them off, his surgical incision itching in the chill night air. Like a pair of giant needle-clawed hands, they mobbed around his fear-frozen body and sank their fangs to either side of the stitches. Pulling away with inexorable slow strength, they snapped the stitches apart bloodlessly, unzipping him, as it were, spreading his ribs until his newly sutured heart lay glistening and pounding, all defenses stripped away.

The largest of the reptilian brood stretched out upon his chest, and calmly began swallowing his heart whole.

Button images by Keith Elder


	36. Chapter 36

****

Chapter Thirty-Six

Angela was very much on someone else's mind at that same moment. Often, sleep or unconsciousness will mercifully blot out everything and leave one quiet, so that the body can concentrate on getting the healing or the rest that it needs, but now and then it does an ugly about-face. Right now, Gadget was having one of those, and it was like being trapped in a very small room with a deadly enemy.

Gadget twitched in her half-sleep, half-daze. Angela's vicious strike to her head had nearly put her lights out for good, only Angela had checked the blow ever-so-slightly. _Wanted to take me somewhere_, the thought drifted through Gadget's mind, as a hazy memory of the bloody, sooty Angela blew and fluttered in her head, the cruel metal in her paws flashing toward her head like an instant replay. _Replacement. Back in the treehouse, when they all hurt me so bad, I remember her saying-- _Even unconscious, the memory of the way Angela had plucked Gadget's own weapon out of her shoulder and flicked it away like a used toothpick--it made Gadget shudder. But the picture was wrong somehow, and her mind grabbed onto the little maddening detail. There in the burned-out library, she had only left one mark on Angela's shoulder, but the first time they had met, Angela had three red clawmarks on her shoulder, twin to her own--

Gadget groaned, creaked her eyelids open and the candle-lit room instantly shocked her brain off-track. Someone, it seemed, had the same appreciation for the cozy, comfortable, secure feel that had made her fall in love with her new bedroom at Timmy and Tina's house. The floors were stone, but the bed was warm, with a roughly-stitched comforter and unfinished wood frame. The company was also roughly stitched, apparently with the same thick thread as the bedding--Devin nestled under the cover, one arm a mass of bandages and a patchwork of sutures. It wasn't pretty, but (as she carefully bent over him to check) it was an admirable job of field dressing. Devin's color looked awful under his fur as she brushed it back, and his breath was a bit shallow--he did not stir much as she gently prodded his good arm. He'd obviously had it worse, whatever had happened after Angela had given her that love-tap with the chisel. Whoever had patched him up had also run a rough bandage around one ear and the side of her head--from the way her head was pounding, and how the cloth pulled when she tried to shift it a bit, she knew to leave it alone.

__

Angela should have killed me. What stopped her?

The room had heavy doors at both ends--more like two halves of a small tree--but with Devin still out, she wasn't about to go exploring. As she pushed the cover aside (carefully tucking the remainder around Devin), she discovered another excuse to stay put. Her scrubs (snagged and torn now, as though she'd been dragged through a thornbush) were stretched tight against her stomach. Rosie Ages and the hospital staff had been careful to leave her room for the changes her body was due for, but they were anything but comfortable now. _Oh, wow. How long have I been out?_

Besides feeling grateful that Devin was still alive and apparently on the mend, Gadget was mainly confused. The headache didn't help. She was certain that Angela wouldn't have taken her someplace nice like this--it wasn't the sort of place someone got kidnapped to. She doubted Thorn Valley's enemies would leave her and Devin in the same room, either. There were no locks on the doors, just heavy wooden bars to the side of each door. Wobbling out of bed, she teetered to each door and shut them, in turn.

Someone was sure to come check on them soon. She quickly ran through her options--it might be Cynthia, come to tell them how she and the Guard had rescued them just in time. As comforting as that sounded, Gadget shook her head. This wasn't Thorn Valley, not any part of it she had seen, at least. The room was cozy, but had a thrown-together quality--a bit of mirror with "objects may be closer than" still visible in the pockmarked glass, a large stained spool of thread for an end-table. None of the Valley's workshop materials here. _This was all obtained the old-fashioned way--someone 'borrowed' it._

The expected knock came at the door nearer the bed, accompanied by a voice she had heard before in far worse places. "Devin?" it rumbled. "Are you awake?"

"No, he's not. Who's there?" called Gadget, though she already had a pretty good idea.

"Turner," said the voice behind the door. "Good to hear you're operational. Been three days. I was pretty sure Devin would wake up before you did."

"He looks awful! What happened to him?"

"He bought you just enough time for me to show up." The voice halted a bit. "If Angela had gotten you out of there instead, it might have been even worse on you than--than last time."

Gadget winced. Holes in her memory or not, she didn't have to ask what Turner meant. _And it's not just my life on the line this time,_ she thought, putting a protective paw to her stomach. Shuddering, she unbarred the door, and Turner stepped inside it--seeing her take a step back and nearly trip over a stool, he brushed her safely out of the way as though his paws were razor knives and he feared cutting her.

To any true stranger, Turner would have been an imposing and frightening sight. When Gadget had seen him before, in barely remembered glimpses, he'd already been quite scarred around the face; if possible he was even more bedraggled and patchy-looking now. _Looks like a prizefighter. I'd hate to see the other guys._ "Thanks for saving my life," she told him. "Again."

Turner smiled, a smile that would have said 'cannibal', if Gadget hadn't known better. His teeth were needle-sharp--through extreme care on his part, they'd never torn out any throats, but they were quite capable. Turner shrugged modestly, self-consciously drawing his lips back over his fearsome set of canines and incisors. "Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Saved you once--mostly--" his smile fell a bit, "--and it turned into a hobby. Now it's looking like a full-time job. I'm just sorry they sent Angela after you."

"Why? Don't tell me you actually like that…thing…"

Turner bit his lip, which looked very painful, no matter how lightly he did it. "Let's just say she could have turned out differently, and I'm runner-up for the patron saint of lost causes. It's not entirely her fault, but I don't think you want the details. They'd sound too familiar."

Gadget shuddered. "You mean she w-was…"

Turner winced but nodded, tugging at an ear without realizing it. _He'll put a hole in that ear with those claws,_ Gadget gulped, _ and it would have a lot of company._ "You're quite a fright in person. No offense."

Turner spread his paws amicably. "None taken. I have to keep up appearances. With the sort of crowd I deal with, appearances are everything. It helps that nine-tenths of them are stone stupid."

Gadget grinned nervously. She still didn't know how to feel in Turner's presence--it was like finally meeting a pen-pal and discovering he had fangs. "It's that--that last ten percent that we've got to worry about, isn't it?"

Turner nodded. "Hate runs high in the masses, but those who know how to channel it have the power. That goes for any terrorist group, but especially true with Group B."

"I've heard you, and others, call the outsiders 'Group B' before. And Arthur, he's one of you too, you said in your note that he had his heart attack because he was one of you--"

"Hmph," Turner grunted. "If I'm going to start on that one, we'd better sit down." He cast his sharp eyes about the room and lowered himself into a sizable pile of rags and stuffing in one corner. He shrugged apologetically. "Used to be a couch. I have a habit of, um, chewing on things."

"It's only natural," Gadget waved him off, sitting on the bed again and turning to check on Devin again. "Is that how you got those teeth?"

Turner shook his mangled head. "I file 'em."

"Do you use a flat-edge file or a rounded one?" she automatically asked.

"Ah, the lady does know her tools," Turner said appreciatively. "Flat-edge, of course. Gets the teeth down to that point."

"Speaking of getting to the point, what about Group B? What do they want? Where did they come from?"

Turner relaxed further into his pile of couch debris, took a deep breath, and started.

__

NIMH, the National Institute of Mental Health, got it into their heads to test intelligence-enhancing drugs on rats, and for comparison, a smaller number of mice. Both are quick learners by nature, hardy, breed quickly--they were looking to enhance just the mental capacity, but in the end they changed us into smarter and _stronger creatures. There were even some among our group that were responding to the reading drills, beginning to recognize letters and string a few together. But in that first batch, our batch that later became known as Group B, the side-effects were sometimes crippling. Seizures, paralysis, heart trouble--yes, Gadget, like Arthur--nervous tics and other mental aberrations were far above any norm. They played around with the dosages and killed scores of us--sometimes after the injections a few of us died right on the spot. Even if you survived, there were the pattern recognition tests and mazes--fail those, and it was lights out forever. It was a constant nightmare, never knowing if we'd go crazy, or wake up the next morning at all._

__

But there was a whisper of hope passed from cage to cage, of a breakthrough in another section of the lab--rats and mice we'd never spoken to or had any real contact with. The lab technicians were our one source of information about them. They were all healthy, all of them progressing with the patterns--they were able to read by then, we later found out-- all of them running the mazes at breakneck speed--and none of them had been killed for failing the tests. Not one.

__

There were mixed reactions to this news. Jealousy from the first, of course--why fate and the scientists had spared them all when we'd seen so much death and pain--some admired the more fortunate rats and tried even harder to please the scientists--running faster, puzzling over the patterns longer and harder.

Then the new and improved batch of rats actually sent us--well, a pair of ambassadors. Dr. Ages--just plain Mr. Ages at the time--and Jonathan Brisby. Official Thorn Valley accounts won't say anything about that. After the pleasantries and the obvious questions--"How'd you get out?" "How many of you are there?" "Do they feed you the same crap we get?"--one of our group, probably the wisest and best, came up with a better question.

It was Arthur. His question was, "Why should we believe anything you say?" and neither Jonathan nor Mr. Ages had any idea how to answer him. The only thing to do was to send Arthur back with them to get independent verification. When they took him out of our section of the lab, Group B's fate was sealed. We'd already looked to Arthur as a leader--a sort of antidote to the other strong voice, the sly voice, the one that never let us rest for a moment. The voice of the Commander.

"The Commander?" Gadget interjected. "Who's he?"

Turner folded his paws together--Gadget thought the effect resembled a paper shredder. He clicked his toothpoints together, and with great reluctance, spoke of the fellow. "He's my father, though life and half these scars are all he ever gave me. Like Satan himself, the Commander would much rather trick someone into self-destruction, or make a friend turn traitor, than go for the easy kill--he delights in anguish. If my father has it in for someone, they'll have the rope halfway around their own neck before they stop to think."

He stopped, sinking into sudden silence, old fears making him twitch a bit. Gadget wanted more of the story, so coughed politely. "Well, I've managed to stay out of his reach so far."

"Just," he reminded her. "And with help," he nodded in Devin's direction.

Gadget nodded, and patted Devin's good arm again, making him shift a bit. "So--did Arthur find what he expected when he went to visit Group A?"

__

What? Oh, Arthur. He found things very cozy in Group A's "quarters". The scientists had indeed taken a shine to their greater successes. There were climbing bars and balls and dangly toys, habitats with winding tunnels snaked across the room--virtually an amusement park compared with our living conditions. At the end of the day they got put back into the cage, but they were kept much more distracted (though not enough, as the humans found out).

Arthur was tricky, and found a way to blend in with the others that took quite a bit of courage--audacity, even--and quick thinking. He actually wrote himself into the room.

Arthur already had an artistic and creative eye--we not only lost wisdom when he left Group B, but a fair amount of culture and technical know-how. He was already good enough with a pen that he faked reams of notes on his own progress and stuck them in with the others. He directed a squad of the Group A rats and showed them out how to lever an empty, unused cage into place with the others, procured a water bottle and straw, made himself up a clip-chart as though he'd been there just as long as the others, and settled in.

When the scientists came in the next morning, the extra rat caused double-takes and rounds of bickering, but the logs were all double-checked and heads scratched in unison. The general agreement was that they'd all overworked themselves and gone a little nuts, so Arthur was shrugged off. A serious mistake, because the next thing Arthur turned his mind to was escape. Escape for all of us.

He and the Group A rats didn't have as long as they thought. The same day news of the escape plan reached us, we in Group B woke up with red tags on our cages. We didn't think much about it, since they were always shifting things around in the lab, making new graphs and numbering our cages for one reason or another. But after the red tags, all the notes and tests and injections cut off like a switch--more like the fall of an axe.

A week of boredom, all to ourselves--the scientists changed our water and left us some food, but not very often. Those with any brains among us started getting jumpy, worrying they might try to split us up or move us to a new, more secure location, but the news when it came was much worse. When Arthur had to report in, he always used the scientists to pass the message--usually a line of Braille dots along the edge of their lab notes. Usually it was "changing mazes again. Watch for electric floor in section five" or "search cabinets for string". Nothing alarming.

This time, the message read, "get out now. going to kill you all."

"Oh, no! The scientists were terminating the experiment?"

"Not quite. Just Group B. It got worse, though, and the message itself was partly to blame."

__

To anybody rational, Arthur's message would have meant, "the scientists are going to kill you". Unfortunately for us, the intelligence-enhancing drugs Group B had been receiving were spotty and inconsistent--a fair number of lights on our Christmas tree were dim, if not burnt out completely. Our week on little food, water, or activity was not a huge plus when it came to rational thinking, either. It was the perfect time for The Commander to make his move.

He said, loudly and often, to anyone who would listen, that the message meant that Group A had taken Arthur hostage and planned to kill all of us in Group B. He never really believed it, but he convinced too many others. It helped his cause when a pair of rats dropped dead within minutes of each other--the Commander shrieked and ranted that Arthur had led Group A assassins in to pick us off one by one. Nice convenient way to slip in the idea that Arthur had turned traitor, which was complete nonsense--

Contagious nonsense, all the same. The Commander had all but the most level-headed of us calling for Group A's blood, and a sort of literal rat race began--you may chuckle a bit at the intentional pun, but that's the only thing funny about it. A race to get out of our section of the lab and kill Group A off before they killed us, or before something the Commander truly feared--before Group A could escape. The Commander, though he never really believed Group A was to blame for the Group B deaths, was convinced that Group A would make a break for it and leave us behind. It turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but he still put his own spin on it and has been milking it ever since.

Someone from our group--wish I'd thought to do it first--got a message to Arthur. Those of us who still had our wits about us knew that Arthur was neither kidnapped nor turned traitor. The message Arthur got, which kicked his tail into high gear and got Group A out of NIMH a week ahead of schedule was: "Group B has gone mad and is coming to kill you." If Arthur had only been so clear with his_ message…_

Before the Commander could whip everyone up into enough of a frenzy to break out_ of our section and _into_ Group A's, Arthur had stripped their section of everything useful, hurried everyone there into the ventilation ducts, out onto the roof and down a drainpipe. Vanished into thin air. Poof. Not so much as a goodbye. It was the only thing to do._

The Commander was frothing mad. He'd really just been putting it on for show before, but he didn't have to fake it anymore. "What did you expect?" I told him. "If we showed up with scalpels and miniature pitchforks, do you think they'd have taken us with them?" That earned me a few scars--he was in fighting shape back then, and could have gotten by on strength alone to lay down his version of the law.

Security was clamped down tight the second the scientists discovered Group A's escape.

On the plus side, they took the red tags off of most of the cages, and started with the injections again. We were suddenly of use to them again. The deaths, however, had not stopped when Arthur and friends took flight--slowly and steadily, the Commander's enemies did him the favor of dying. The scientists tried changing our dosages, checking for viruses and bacteria, but all in vain. As for us rats, no one was even paying attention to the politics any more--Group B, with a dwindling number of objectors, had bought into the Commander's lies.

It didn't do my nerves any good when the Commander finally calmed down, either. He gathered all his followers one evening up on the countertop--there were perhaps twenty by then, and four or five of us who were there just to keep an eye on the devil. He'd made speeches before, speeches that had made just as little sense, but it was the main drive of this one that had everyone in an uproar.

In sad and certain tones, he announced that he was going to die by morning, that he'd been singled out by Arthur and his 'pack of traitors' for a most horrible and grisly death. He then retreated to his cage and hid in the straw, complaining of violent cramps in his stomach--surely, he moaned, the first signs of a creeping, insidious poison.

In the morning, when the scientists came in, they found the Commander stretched out and twisted in his cage like a furry pretzel, without a pulse, stone cold. They bagged him up, dropped him in the incinerator chute, and even a few of his wrecking crew were relieved.

Most of them though--they howled and moaned that we were lost without him, this great leader, this one rat who had 'seen the truth' and tried to save them from certain destruction--but they howled and moaned worse when they'd had a sip or two from their water-bottles.

The water was bitter that day, like it had been left out too long in a metal cup--and from the pit of our stomachs came a wrenching, followed by a cold numbness. I don't know who was more frightened, we rats, or the scientists who dashed from cage to cage watching their sole research subjects flop helplessly like landlocked fish, and finally die.

When I grayed out, unable to breathe, twitching on the steel mesh of my cage floor, my last thought was, 'Please, quicker.'

"Poisoned?" Gadget shuddered. "But you must have had some sort of resistance, some sort of natural immunity--"

"Oh, we had something better," rumbled Turner. "And something worse. We had a hero."

__

I woke up in blackness, the smell of soot and less pleasant things slapping me awake. It was a smell of burnt fur, plastic, and paper, but the fur wafted on top of everything. I knew exactly where I was--in the incinerator. There were other bodies in the bag, not moving, still and cold.

I panicked at first, scrabbling at the bag--but my claws weren't these weapons you see now. They were no match for the tough material. I felt as though I were going to suffocate, my miraculous survival all for nothing.

Someone jabbed a penknife into the side of the bag and began ripping a hole in it. A paw groped inside--I took it, and it pulled me out into a small and sooty room lit by a few birthday candles.

"Happy Birthday, Turner," my rescuer said. Sure enough, there was my father, the Commander, lively as ever, and already standing at the center of a group of fawning, grateful rats, shredded disposal bags littering the floor. I was so glad to be alive that I nearly thanked him myself, but I put two and two together--he'd been behind our 'deaths' and brought us out alive.

"Here is my son!" he called to the hasty assembly. "Like the rest of you, I've snatched him from certain death. I went on before you, and I have returned--I am the giver and the taker of life, none other!" He went into the bag I'd come out of--this time he dragged a couple of rats out into the light. Two of my best friends, against him from the start. Their eyes were fixed wide open and their limbs already stiff. They were not among the chosen.

"These were not worthy!" he announced, and dropped them none too gently. "They plotted and planned behind my back! They were with Group A!" Murmurs of wrath spread through his audience.

I couldn't stand it any longer. I took the Commander's arm and whispered into his ear, trying to keep a look of earnest concern. "You killed them. This is all a charade."

"Yes," he whispered back, "and a good one, too."

"How," I growled softly, "did you get them put into my bag, you bastard?"

"Neat trick, eh? Hold your tongue, or I'll cut it out," he sneered.

I took his advice for the moment, and applied myself to shifting a heavy metal flap to one side of the incinerator, which finally gave and tipped us out into a bin full of ashes and bones. They were the remains of our mothers, our brothers, and friends--we mourned them a moment and then made good our escape through a basement window. Those poor relics had one advantage--they would never see the monsters that so many of us would become under the thumb of the greatest monster of them all. They would have been ashamed and horrified.

Turner trailed off. Gadget was sure there was more to the story. "But that was years ago! Why come after Group A again after all these years?"

Turner took a pitcher from the bedside table, and drained it dry. "You've got me all talked out, Gadget. I haven't had anyone to tell it to. I'm sorry you got dragged into it, and for so little." He stopped and picked up his train of thought again. "There are many things I could tell you, and few of them nice, about what we've been up to ever since. What happened to you and your friends the Rangers was terrible, Gadget, but it was only--" He winced, the words as bitter on his tongue as the Commander's potion had been. "You and your friends were just--practice."

Gadget stared at him. "Just practice? What do you mean?"

"They're a ragtag bunch, Group B. The Commander's testing their strength, seeing who's useful in combat, weeding out the weak. Your outpost wasn't entirely without defenses--it had a good security system, and valiant defenders. The raiding party that destroyed your home, r-"Turner gripped the remains of the couch he was sitting on, muscles in his arms bunching, shredding the stuffing further. "The ones that hurt you, trashed the place, killed your friends--in that order, I might add--they saw you as a small-scale operation to practice on."

Gadget leapt to her feet, fists clenched. She bristled and trembled, tendons sticking out of her neck. "Practice? PRACTICE?" Devin shifted and groaned at the sound. She sat back down on the bed and made soothing sounds until it looked like he was resting easier again. "If we were practice," she said glumly, feeling Devin's chest rise and fall with a slight hitch as though his dreams were troubled, "they must have something bigger planned. They're going after Thorn Valley, aren't they? To do the same to them?"

Turner shook his head. "You've got it half right. Even the Commander called the attack on the Rangers a complete failure. He and Group B need to take as many Thorn Valley rats alive as they can."

Gadget scratched her head. "Why? This Commander you've told me all about--he's after revenge, even if Group A only hurt him in his own mind…"

Turner winced again. "It's a little more complicated than revenge, Gadget."

"So tell me!"

"Group B," he said solemnly, "is broken, and many of us are dying. We were made strong, and smart, but we were not made to last. I was lucky--I got a fairly good batch of the serum at NIMH, but on the whole we're a sickly and degenerate mess. Mentally and physically, only myself, the Commander, and a few others have any sort of chance to live beyond a few more years."

"What does Group A have to do with--"

"Group A was made right. They are smart, strong, and healthy. To the right people--and I use people in the classical sense of the word, meaning humans--they're very valuable as well. The Commander is convinced that he can arrange a … trade."

Gadget felt a cold wave of dread for all her new Thorn Valley friends course through her. "A trade? Who with? For what?"

"With NIMH, of course. The Commander is convinced that NIMH can save Group B, and he's not about to go back empty-pawed. He wants to hand them every rat in Thorn Valley, alive if possible, but dead if they put up a fight. And you know," he looked at Gadget with grim resolution, "that Justin is going to."

Button images by Keith Elder


	37. Chapter 37

****

Chapter Thirty-Seven

By the time they hit the tarmac (the wheelchair hit it first, and broke), Timothy wasn't in the least surprised when more started going wrong.

For the second time in recent history, he had to piggyback it as Tina hauled him down the exit ramp.  Wilbur, their soggy albatross pilot, twisted around to pour rainwater out of the pockmarked sardine can serving as a passenger seat.  Both mice looked longingly at the towering bulk of the nearby airliner.

"Bet they stayed dry," whispered Tina, a bit too loud as usual.

"Geez, guys, sorry about the chair-- oh, come on, don't look at me like that!  I don't even have fingers!  You were the ones who tied the knots."  Fingers or no, Wilbur pried the goggles off his head and made a feeble attempt to dry them.

"That makes me feel a whole lot better," Timothy seethed, "but it doesn't make me any more MOBILE!"

"Hush," Tina wheezed.  "I can't hear what you're saying back there, but you grab tighter when you yell!"

Timothy relaxed his grip as much as he could without slipping off.  He kissed the back of Tina's ear, and burdened as she was she was still able to giggle a bit.  _Well, she can't hear, but at least her ears are still good for something, _Timothy sighed.  Both of their ears were still sore from the beating they'd endured in the hailstorm.  Neither was looking forward to facing the Rescue Aid Society looking half-drowned

Wilbur paced the short landing strip, flinging water from his feathers and eyeing the approaching stormclouds with suspicion.  "I'm gonna have to fly back through that.  You can bet I'll be hugging the ground all the way, though." He slapped the goggles back on and flapped his wings, warming up.  "Can't chat, on a schedule."  He stumbled his webfooted way in the direction of the storm, which was spiking the sky with lightning.  Once he was at a safer distance from the soaked mice, Wilbur called out—"Sorry again about the chair!" 

Timothy slipped off Tina's neck and onto the stairs of the exit ramp as she lowered him gently.  "I'll send you a bill!" he shouted after Wilbur's tailfeathers as a thunderclap struck and the rain caught up with them.

"Got it covered, good buddy," winked Wilbur over his shoulder, nearly taking a nosedive as he pointed to his own beak.

"Not that kind of bill, you flying feathered fraud," called Tina, but Wilbur finally caught the air and was swallowed up almost instantly by the tumult overhead.

It was ten minutes before the courtesy car showed up, which sort of took the courtesy out of it.  Though mice themselves, it was a bit of a shock to see a mouse driving an automobile—they'd lived most of their lives in Thorn Valley, and Timothy's now-broken wheelchair had been the most advanced form of transportation there.

The limo, streaked with mud and less savory grime, looked like a prom date's worst nightmare from the outside—it had to.  Like most of the Rescue Aid fleet, the only identifying marks on the vehicle were sneaky camouflage – in this case, "BIG CHEESE TAXI AND LIMO SERVICES", and a fake number that sounded like a fax line if you called it.  Covert vehicles had to look like discarded toys or promotional gimmicks no one else would want—if spotted, the standing order was to 'play dead' and try to act like a very quiet piece of cheap plastic.

Rescue Aid had actually sent one of the nicer cars after Timothy and Tina.  It had one-and-one-half working windows, and the front one creaked as it revealed the driver.  Grinning (_like a death's-head, _Tina later thought), untouched by the sheets of rain, a frightfully cheery mouse in a patched and threadbare, tweed buttondown hat surveyed the bedraggled pair from behind the wheel.  "Brisbys, then?" he called out.

"One and one nearly," Timothy managed to wring out.

Dennis nodded.  "Tha' should add up to a convention," he said, and launched himself at the open window like a mouse-in-the-box.

Tina let out a shriek and took a step back as Dennis wriggled out and plopped onto the concrete, stood straight, and swept his hat off in an apologetic gesture.  "Sarry to give ya such a tairn, miss.  Driver's side door's molded clear shut.  Supposed ta be a safety feature, but I won't say what I'd call it."  He pulled the handle of the much-longer rear passenger door, swung it open, and waved Timothy and Tina closer.  "As f'r myself, I'm Dennis.  Do be careful getting in; my other passengers are a mite fragile."

"Hopefully they're waterproof," gurgled Timothy.  _I'm just begging for a cold, I know it--_

Tina turned about, keeping a wary eye on Dennis, backed into the door of the miniature limousine, and carefully jettisoned Timothy from around her neck again.  This sent him flopping onto the seat like a giant waterlogged necklace.  "I'm beginning to sympathize with that poor wheelchair of yours, Timmy," Tina groaned, trying to mash her neck back into shape, then squished into the limo as well.  

Dennis brushed Tina's tail out of the way (her opinion of him greatly improved at this) and shut the door.  He carefully crouched by the rear wheel, pulled his cap back on, and wept bitterly.

Face to face with their hosts at last, cold and wet to the bone even through their coats, the new arrivals somehow found room in their waterlogged minds for shock.  _We've got into an ambulance by mistake, _Tina nearly said, but just shook her head, spattering the interior with second-hand raindrops.

Bernard and Bianca looked terrible, but the fairer of the two handed Tina and Timothy a towel each.  "We're so sorry, darlings, we would have been here earlier, but we had a little paperwork problem at the hospital."

"You mean, I kept bleeding on the doctor's notes," Bernard grunted sourly, and Timothy took an instant liking to him.  Bernard stuck out a paw and Timothy shook it gingerly--it looked like one good shake would finish him off.  The other paw was in a sling. "Nice to meet you.  Easy, Timothy.  They took me off the critical list a day ago."

"What on earth are you two doing out in this weather?" Tina's fur stood up in little spikes, half from the toweling and half in continued surprise. "If you've hurt yourselves worse just coming out to meet us--"

Bianca grimaced.  "We'll get along.  Besides, there was no one else to send."

Timothy goggled.  "What about the undersecretary for Belize or something?  The attaché to Antigua? Anybody but you two, all torn up and mangl--"

"--no, no," Bernard cut in, and took a deep breath.  "She said, there was no one else to send. She meant it."

Blinks and blank stares all around, and the most awkward of silences.

"Rescue Aid was in full session when they did it," Bianca went on, her voice dropping low and cold.

Tina had been a little chattery thanks to the rain and wind outside, but the chill factor inside the limousine suddenly seemed far worse.  "No," said Tina, firmly.  "We're getting out now.  We'll come back in and start over, and it'll be like they told us.  You're not telling us this, not now, not when Justin and Elizabeth sent us hundreds of miles--"

"--in a hailstorm--" Timmy murmured, sinking deeper into the vinyl seat.

"--not after they sent us all this way to get help," Tina pleaded.

"You'd be surprised at what we still have to offer," Bernard growled.  "After things blew up, we had a lot of angry little pieces left over.  They may still add up to something."

"There were fatalities, I'm guessing," grimaced Tina.  "How many?"

"It was bad," Bianca shook her head.  "But serious talk on an empty stomach never did anyone good."  She opened up a refrigerator built into a side panel.  Timothy and Tina were barely surprised to see a condensation-misted IV bag full of blood hanging there, but thankfully Bianca reached for a large crinkly package.  Someone had folded an entire American cheese slice, plastic and all, then squeezed it into the fridge.

"We've just got pre-sliced.  Good enough for Brisbys?" Bernard coughed.

"Considering the circumstances, we'll relax our standards," said Timothy with a thin grin.  "No offense, just a little mousetrap humor."

"I won't turn my nose up at American either.  Though I keep explaining," said Tina, though it felt like small potatoes, "I'm not a Brisby just yet.  I'm still a Mouskewitz.  Timothy hasn't formally asked for my paw in marriage yet--"

"--it's not like I'm going to get down on one knee, but I'm working on it--"

Unfolded, the cheese slice was a bit mangled, but quite edible.  Timothy had recovered enough to nibble a frowny-face mask out of his portion, and nearly got a giggle out of Tina, but she made him eat it to destroy the evidence.   Feeling a little better, Timothy returned to the business at paw. 

"Since we're having a fire sale on bad news, want to hear ours?"

Bernard and Bianca groaned.  Bianca waved him on.  "If we hit bottom, you can help us dig.  Go ahead."

"Devin and Gadget are missing, presumed abducted, and injured at best.  With Gadget gone and our engineer Arthur halfway out of commission from a heart transplant, Thorn Valley's security is leaking like a sieve."

"We're hardly ones to complain about security holes," Bernard noted mournfully.

"Dev and Gadget, both?  That's awful to hear.  What sort of black hole did we send them into?"  Bianca winced. "I don't mean to speak badly of your home, you two--"

"—but it was a bad place to send Gadget   She was already too close to the situation.  Might as well have hung a neon sign around her neck saying 'second chance to kill me'," Bernard mused.  "What a snafu this has turned into."

"I can still do part of my job," Timothy began to rummage around in his coat.  From an inside pocket, he drew a wax-sealed envelope bearing the Rescue Aid chairmice's names in neat script.  "It's a little sweaty but I think it survived the trip in readable condition."

Bianca snagged the letter and snapped the seal, reading, "'Dear Bernard and Bianca—thank you for welcoming my son and his companion,' –your mother still chooses her words very carefully, Timothy—'I do hope this marks a new spirit of cooperation between our organizations.  There has been one change of plans in their visit, with your permission.  We do not send them as mere couriers or liaisons, and do not expect their assignment to be a short one.  As elected heads of government for Thorn Valley, we designate Timothy and Tina as our delegates to the Rescue Aid Society and hereby apply for membership.  Our territory, facilities, and any aid we may be able to render are yours for the asking.  Assuming our petition for membership is granted, please send any available military and security personnel and equipment, as quickly as possible.  In short, HELP!  Sincerely, Elizabeth (Justin is looming over my shoulder as usual).'  Oh, congratulations, the both of you!  See, you haven't brought us only bad news after all!"

Bernard cracked his bandaged knuckles, and cracked a real grin for the first time in a long while.  "I like the sound of that, for sure.  Let me see—as co-chairmouse of R.A.S., I hereby call an emergency meeting.  Presto, change-o, you're delegates, welcome to the outfit.  Say, you two, I'm not completely familiar with Thorn Valley's layout, but I've seen the map a few times.  Don't you have a sort of meeting hall out there?"

Tina cocked her head.  "Yes, the grand cavern.  The Council meets there but it's empty for most of the year—"

Bianca put a paw on her shoulder and winked conspiratorially.  "Not any more, it's not."

Button images by Keith Elder


	38. Chapter 38

****

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Arthur thought Angela was hissing at him again, so he didn't bother opening his eyes.  He just rolled over a bit (_damn, but these stitches itch!_) and tried to go back to sleep.  He had a whirl of troubles keeping him awake, not the least of which was shoring up Thorn Valley's defenses.  _Lock us up too tight and we're helpless.  Play it fast and  loose, and we're dead._

Angela's noises bothered him a bit, because they were the wrong sort, definitely out of character.  Her snarls usually were more of a "ssss" and not so much of an "mmmph".

Reluctantly peeling his eyelids open, what Arthur saw didn't make much sense at first.  It looked as though an orderly in a set of blue scrubs were standing in the darkened room by Angela's bed, pressing down on her face with a pillow in one paw, a syringe ready in the other.

Arthur's first urge was to shout out, but he bit his tongue and thought.  _He'd jab her with that thing if I called for help—or jab me…  _Arthur's eyes darted around, searching for anything within reach—his mind churning and turning over all he had to work with.  It was short notice, but after all it was still an engineering problem.

A light grin touched his lips, and he stretched a paw toward a wrapped syringe—a big one—resting on the bedside table.  He sneaked it back under the sheets, its wrapper crinkling slightly.  Arthur felt sweat trickling over his eyebrows, and the stitches itched worse than ever.  Taking a deep breath, he brought his paws together under the covers, stripped the syringe free, and twisted the needle off.

Still working quickly and silently, he snagged a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a bundle of cotton swabs, and a roll of medical tape.  Angela's muffled protests seemed to take her attacker's full attention, for which Arthur was supremely grateful.  He drew up a syringe-full of the alcohol--_don't spill any, this isn't going to be very safe—_screwed the needle back on, strapped the cotton swabs on with a strip of tape, and discovered a small hitch in his plan. _Damn.  I need a light—_

Angela was proving difficult to smother, even in her injured state, and the fake orderly was cutting his eyes nervously toward the door.  Angela was losing the struggle, though, and her attacker kept up the murderous pressure on the pillow.

_Screw it,_ thought Arthur, and brought his makeshift weapon out from under the covers.  He fumbled at the edge of his hospital bed, found the wires he hoped were there, yanked two of them free, and crossed them.  _I just hope I don't blow the place sky-high--_

A crackle of ozone and a spark in the blackness of the room made the would-be assassin whip around to see Arthur level a point of flame at him.  The orderly brought his own syringe up and went for Angela.  Arthur prayed and pushed the plunger.

A stream of liquid fire leapt across the room and splattered against the orderly's face.  His syringe clattered away as he began to claw at his crackling, crisping fur, shrieking in pain and terror.  Arthur figured this was a good time to hit the call button, but realized he'd just ripped it out.  His pawpads clattered uselessly against it, a large lump rising in his throat. 

The orderly's fur sparked and fizzled as he zeroed in on Arthur, stalking toward Arthur with both paws smoldering, as they curved into vengeful claws.  He only made it a couple of steps before Arthur threw the rest of the rubbing alcohol at him.

Like one of those trick re-lighting candles, the orderly burst into flame again, the blue flicker of heat tracing his flapping outline like a demonic halo as he scrabbled at the railing of Arthur's bed.  Most villains forget to stop, drop, and roll, but this one had apparently had a little education, as he fell to the hospital floor and began whirling about on the linoleum, screeching madly.

Arthur cursed himself and ripped off the leads to his heart monitor, which began to shriek almost as loud as the uninvited flaming guest.  Real medical personnel came bustling through the door, to find a scene out of Bedlam, with the spinning, smoking orderly, Angela gasping for air, and Arthur clutching his chest.  The nurses were taken aback for a moment, but ripped off Angela's blanket and threw it over the twitching wreck of the attacker, beating on the pitiful bundle with their paws.  One nurse grabbed a pitcher of water from Angela's nightstand, splashing it on the tangle of scorched fabric and singed fur that lay there twitching and moaning.  The stench was the stuff of legend, a brown stink of burnt rat hanging in the air, and it finally did set off the sprinklers.

"Keep him wrapped up!" barked Arthur.  "He's an assassin!"

"He's a rat fritter," one of the nurses shook her head at Arthur.  She hit the silence button on the heart monitor, and it quit its high-pitched drone.  "Put that thing out!" she ordered, jabbing a finger at Arthur. 

He examined his spent impromptu flamethrower.  The cotton swabs were still aflame, so he dunked the whole contraption into the glass of drinking water on the nightstand.  One large nurse snagged his bed and I.V. pole, dragging him toward the door and out—it was very good to be out of that room.

Arthur lay in the hallway, breathing deep and taking a personal inventory.  _No burns.  No clawmarks, he never touched me.  _ He looked down the front of his hospital gown.  _Ah, those damn stitches—  Several_ had pulled badly, though he was more or less still sewn together.  He shuddered a bit at the inevitable—they'd have to shave him again soon to tidy up their work.

Angela was rolled out of the room next, pillow now safely back under her head where it belonged, and an oxygen mask over her snout, its tubes leading to a wheeled canister of oxygen.  It cost her much energy and much pain, but she waved her arms feebly at the nurse, who stopped her bed close to Arthur.  Her breath came deep and gasping still, fogging the inside of the mask as the nurse popped back in to help deal with the attacker.

"You—you saved my life—"

"You were helpless.  I had to try something."

"No you—you didn't!  You shouldn't have!  What—did you have to do--that for, you meddling old bastard?!"  Angela clawed at his gown, Arthur wincing as the fabric twisted up tight against him. 

"Stop that!  Do I have to ask the nurse for an extra pillow and finish you off myself?"

She gave up and made a fist, but weak as she was could only thud it half-heartedly against his chest—painful but no real threat.  She unclenched her paw and laid it down on the bright spots of blood showing through the fabric of Arthur's garment, gingerly touching where she'd pulled a few more of his stitches.

The mask of rage and frustration dropped from her face, and she shook her head.  "Oh, God.  I'm so s—" the unfamiliar word caught in her throat and nearly choked her.  "—s-sorry.  Please, I didn't mean to hurt you—didn't—"  She drew up as close to the bars between their beds, pressed against them, and sobbed so hard Arthur thought her battered body must surely break into pieces.

Sheer pity made him reach out a paw, and she held it tight for a long while.  "Snappy?"  he ventured.  He cursed himself a little and tried again.  "Angela?  I really do think you mean it.  And here I thought you'd never been sorry for anything, ever."

Angela raised her head a bit and shook it  emphatically as she could manage.  "Never.  This is new.  And I don't like it one bit.  I feel… awful."

"A metal spike through the middle and being near-smothered will do that," Arthur offered.  _Though I'll have to tell Dr. Ages we've stumbled onto a new form of therapy, if it gets results like this…_

"Need to tell you—why he came after me." She sucked at the oxygen, her face gray and taut.  "Wanted to shut me up for good.  They thought I might tell.  Now I will, when I –get the breath back to tell it."

"Tell?" Arthur would have scratched his head, but his stitches pulled when he tried.  "Tell what?"

Angela sank back against her pillow.  "How you're all going to die," she matter-of-facted, like a weary weathercaster calling for rain in Seattle.

Button images by Keith Elder


	39. Chapter 39

****

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Take your hand and pound it against the wall.

Run it under scalding hot water and get that initial burn going, then scream as that second wave of pain hits.

Wrap it up in broken glass, rub it with Sterno, set it on fire and squeeze it in a vise.

Please, please don't.  But that is some approximation of how Devin's left paw felt every time he surfaced from his dark dreams long enough to form an opinion.

_Want an opinon? Or just a pin.  Pinned me to the freaking floor.  Ah, God, I don't even make sense, kill me now._

In this particular interlude between bouts of darkness, Devin remembered to be afraid.  Not for himself, but it brought him out of the stupor like a thunderclap just overhead. _Gadget?_

"Gadget?  Where are you? God _damn _it but this hurts!" Devin darted his bleary eyes around the unfamiliar room with its patchwork quilt and found-objects décor.  A packrat might have felt at home in such surroundings, if the love of his life hadn't been unconscious herself the last time he'd seen her.  He shuffled his footpaws out from under the covers, swung them over, and mostly stood up – the one arm felt like a molten lead weight.

He surveyed the bed behind him—two pillows, one with a bloodstain.  _Did I put that there or did Gadget?  She must be awake or—screw that, no "or"--she's awake somewhere.  _

Devin caught his reflection in the rearview mirror.  If anything, he looked thinner (_Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife can go take a flying leap,_ his mind freewheeled), and his bad arm was bandaged up to the elbow.  _Ooh, maybe if I gnaw it off, only the stump will hurt!_

A load came off his shoulders when he noticed the makeshift coat rack in one corner.  His beleaguered lab coat was hooked neatly on it, and someone had washed the blood out – both his and Angela's.  _Someone figured I'd still need that poor old battered wreck of a coat,_ he grinned/grimaced.  _Someone still had hope.  Ah, you're okay after all, aren't you, Gadget?_

All the standing had finally brought enough fresh blood into the bad paw that it started to throb mercilessly again.  Devin shrieked without shame and collapsed into one of the rough-hewn chairs, cradling the arm and rocking back and forth.

The massive chunk of wood that served as a door popped open, and the lady of the hour stuck her still-bandaged head in.  She was grinning from ear to perky ear, had definitely gotten over her balance problem, and looked like she had just swallowed a watermelon.  From somewhere, she had come up with a new worksuit, in an odd pearly-white, but had stuck with the stretch waistband idea.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.  "Good to see you're up again."  Besides the large stomach, she was carrying something very strange--

"Gnnn?" Devin growled through his teeth, though his tail lashed about in his unabashed pleasure at just seeing her.

"Yes, silly, again.  You've been up three times and you won't stay in bed.  The arm keeps putting you back there," she gestured slightly with the black, bristling, mechanical thing in her arms.  Strip all the tubing off and lose the tanks, and it would definitely look like a—

"Gnnn?" Devin strained again, lips dancing madly over his incisors, gesturing with his good paw.

"This? Oh, yeah, sorry.  Forgot it might startle you.  Just a little gun is all." She brought the gun up and pointed it at the wall farthest from Devin. "Put a millimeter-sized hole in your head from a hundred paces, virtually no recoil, nearly silent.  If it weren't a killing machine I could almost admire it."

"What," Devin yelped, pads on the good paw doing a frantic fandango on his knee, "are you doing with that frigging thing?"

Gadget grimaced sheepishly.  "Well, er, it's a good thing you're awake.  We have to, well--shoot you with it."

Devin blinked twice through the haze of pain. "Oh, thank God."

Gadget shot him full of something else first.  _Pure love, fierce determination, protective instinct—the usual—_but also just enough Demerol to take the edge off.  Turner had gone out on a scavenging run, and this was but one of his many finds…

Devin slalomed through the root-lined tunnel, drifting on a cloud.  He knew that somewhere his arm was calling to him like a lost boater on a foggy lake, ready to start screaming when he got too close.  He didn't want any of that, so he just went with the flow.

It carried him into a cavern of sorts, where he squinted as arclights began a slow glow overhead.  "Gadget?  Does your workshop follow us around or something?"

"No, silly, I just build a new one everywhere I go.  Turner found a model shop that was half burned out and brought me a wagonload of primo salvage."  She hefted a dislocated remote-control dial and blew away a puff of soot.  "Some of it still smells a little funny, but as long as it carries a current, we're in business."

"How's the arm, Devin?" boomed a deep voice nearby.  Devin slowly and carefully twisted about to see a hulking form bent over one of the benches.  Even without the Demerol, the sight would have been surreal. 

Turner was merrily sending flaps of faintly shimmering fabric—like Gadget's new worksuit--shuttling along beneath the clicking needle of a pink sewing machine decorated with appliqué flowers.  With a sudden sound of tortured metal, it ground to a halt.  Turner sighed in disgust and rapped the all-too-cute machine with a massive paw. 

"You'll wear that thing out," Gadget cautioned.  "Again."

"That's all right," Turner chuckled.  "We've got a spare or two."  Looming behind him was a wall of similar units, still in the plastic.  "I do have to admit, I feel a bit guilty knowing you hacked UPS and got this shipment sent to an abandoned lot."

"I still had a little left in the old Ranger account.  Emergency fund, though I don't think Rescue Aid expected we'd buy toy sewing machines with it." The Daisy El-Lectric Mini (so emblazoned in happy letters along one side) coughed uncertainly but soldiered on for a few more turns of its abused motor.  Turner tidied up his work and held the fabric tube up against one arm. 

_Dear God, it's just a sleeve—_goggled Devin. _Looks like most of a tent--_

"You'll make a fashion designer out of me yet, Gadget," said Turner, with his trademark distressing grin.

"I hope you got that stuff in bulk—a few Turner-sized suits of that stuff and you'd use more fabric than Christo…"

Turner's smile fell.  "Ah, yes.  Christo.  Performance artist.  Human.  He wrapped the whole German Reichstag building in fabric once."  Turner's eyes looked a bit haunted.  "You'll wish he'd wrapped Thorn Valley in this stuff, once the trouble really starts."

"It would certainly save us a lot of work," agreed Gadget.  "Do you realize how many El-Lectric Minis we had to sacrifice to make this?" She grinned, as Devin wobbled his eyes back in her direction.  She turned the handle on a utility cabinet, opening the door to reveal an inspiring sight.

Devin snapped to attention, the fuzz clearing out from between his ears and the Demerol haze retreating several paces.  "Please let me put it on.  Now."

"Let you put it on?  No way.  I'm going to help you put it on," bubbled Gadget.  She pulled the pristine white labcoat from the cabinet, a pearly iridescence flitting across its crispness.  "Remember your bad arm.  We don't want to stir up trouble there."

Devin nodded in awe as Gadget slipped an arm around him and guided his bandaged arm carefully through the sleeve.  "You made this?  Under these conditions?  I'm beginning to think you are MacGuyver, Gadget.  Thank you so much, both of you!"

Turner coughed politely.  "Oh, she hardly let me touch that one.  She did it all herself.  Tough job too—that fabric's a real horror when you're trying to cut it.  You need diamond-edged scissors, not to mention the needles--"  Turner bit his tongue, a painful prospect considering his filed fangs.  "But never mind about those, we'll get to that."

Devin twisted and turned to look at every square inch of this latest welcome addition to his wardrobe.  It was longer than his old coat—this one reached nearly to his ankles and had a myriad of pockets – some with clasps, some with zippers, others simple flaps, but just the right number in just the right places.  Though solid, the zippers and clasps had that same faint sheen—they had to be made of a material similar to the fabric.

Turner gave him a wolf-whistle.  "Hey, that's my line," Gadget complained.  "Here.  Put on the glove—your bad paw still won't fit into the other one."  Devin wrestled it on.  It was of a piece with the rest of the outfit, but if anything, even more flexible, like a second skin.

Gadget pulled out another one of her proverbial bag of tricks--a full-length mirror, which she wheeled out from behind the cabinet.  "I've added a few touches that aren't immediately visible—but I bet you're wondering about the cloth."  Devin nodded and she went on.

"It's a synthetic, of course.  It's something like a Kevlar cloth, only thinner."

"Bulletproof?"

She shook her head.   "It would stop a bullet, but as small as we are, a full-caliber bullet would do too much concussion damage.  It's the weave itself that gives it the qualities we're after."

"So if it's not bulletproof, what does it do? Besides look really, really good with my fur color," he eyed himself in the mirror again.

"Well, it's prick-proof."

"Pardon me?" Devin arched an eyebrow, still-fuzzy brain trying to get it straight.  "We already know you aren't."

Gadget blushed.  "There I go.  I don't mean to say things like that, but around you they just seem to fly out.  I meant," she tried again, as Turner chuckled behind her, "it's a variation on a fabric designed to stop needle punctures, and humans have only ever made gloves out of it—"

"We're a lot smaller than that, though," Turner chimed in, "and this fabric is a step ahead of anything humans have presently.  This will take a direct hit from one of those needle-guns.  It'll even hold up for a sword thrust or two.  I take it you saw some of the bodies from my little raid at Thorn Valley?"

Devin sifted his brain for the images, only a few days old, which now seemed a lifetime away.  Yes, the fight near the cliffs, and the mangled carcasses of the attackers.  But something had seemed off at the time—

"Yes.  After you dropped the package and that severed ear on us, when we were holed up with Timothy and Tina.  You left quite a mess behind…"

"Notice the odd uniforms scattered among the dead?  Sort of an imitation of the Guard uniforms?"

Devin nodded.

"The best fighters in Group B get those.  They like to wear them out of spite, pure and simple.  But they also like them because they're lined with this stuff," Turner gestured to the rolls of fabric.  "They can fight well, but that's not the only reason they're hard to kill.  I had hoped that Arthur or Dr. Ages would have tested the fabric by now, but things are such a shambles in Thorn Valley that it's no surprise."

Gadget grinned.  "Luckily for our side, I've been working on a few surprises myself."  She turned to Turner, tail twitching excitedly.  "You don't think I'll blow out a fuse if I turn on the machine again, do you?"

Turner groaned.  "It's not like I can just zip out and fetch you a replacement.  And I usually draw enough power for a few light bulbs, but if anyone checks their records, they'll think a college physics lab has sprung up in the hills…"

"But pleeease, it's a neat lightshow and we need the ammo anyways," Gadget pouted.  Turner waved her on with his scary claws, and she nodded in thanks.

"More ammo?  What—"

"Watch and be amazed at the miracles of modern science!  Whereas you still need a little TLC—that would be tender loving care, for those of us in the room who are still spaced out on Demerol—our ammo needs some DLC."

"D—"

"All will become clear," said Gadget in the proud tones of a sideshow magician with an unbeatable trick coming up.  She whipped the cover off of a small clear box, something like a fish tank, except this one had Styrofoam covering the bottom, with a forest of sewing needles standing embedded on end inside.  She opened a nearby cabinet—albeit a cabinet with multicolored wires, a digital readout, and several dials—one with a post-it note slapped on it reading "Not This One".

She closed the glass sliding door on the cabinet, lowered her ever-present goggles (handing Devin a spare pair, which he held on with his good paw) and turned a dial that did not have an ominous warning on it.

The lights in the workshop dimmed and flickered as an electric dance of fire danced inside the small chamber, a low humming as purple streams flowed around the needles.  With a small _pop!_ the show was over and the lights came back up.

"All well and good," Devin shrugged, "but what does it do?"

Gadget put on a pair of oven mitts and retrieved the now slightly discolored glass box from inside the cabinet, setting it back on the wooden workbench.  "DLC, just like I said.  Easier to show than explain.  Just for your benefit, I happen to have some of these made up in advance," she announced, so very like the host of a cooking show.

"Well—I'm entertained.  New clothes, fireworks—the only thing missing is dinner."

Gadget wrinkled her nose.  "Hopefully you'll keep something down this time.  You've more than gotten even with me for puking on your shoes the first time we met."  She shook a paw-sized container and something inside rattled slightly.  "This is what passes for an ammo clip."  She scrawled a few letters on the container with a permanent marker, put it into a pocket, and picked up a smoother, smaller version of the needle gun.  Seeing his questioning look, Gadget patted the gun.  "This is my version.  Doesn't need a compressor.  Runs off a miniature CO2 canister—lighter and quieter."   

Stalking over to another corner of the workshop, she leveled the gun at a pockmarked practice dummy a fair distance away—its ears were shot nearly off, as was the nose, but the torso was draped with a vest made from the shiny super-fabric, looking untouched.  "You killed my brother, you dirty raaat," she snarled, in her best Jimmy Cagney, though not a very good one.

_Keep your day job,_ thought Devin, though not unkindly.

With a succession of _ffft_ sounds, needles zinged toward the dummy.  Some stuck in the head (others went straight through it), but most hit the vest and dropped harmlessly to the floor, tinkling musically.  "Remind me to make you a fold-up hood for that lab coat," Gadget winked over her shoulder. 

"And maybe a mask—" Devin gulped as a large chunk of the dummy's head gave up and fell off. 

"I think it's time I lived up to my word and actually took a shot at you, Dev," Gadget motioned him into her line of fire.  "Just come closer, though—want to make sure I hit you in the arm or stomach, just so you'll have an idea of how it feels.  I wouldn't want you to get your first taste of this in a combat situation.  Don't look at me like that!  I had Turner shoot me in the leg when it was my turn."

Devin resigned himself and held out a paw.  "Cover your eyes with the other sleeve just in case," warned Gadget.  "And remember, I love you."

Devin nodded behind the sleeve.  "My muv yu mu," he muffled.  With the trademark puff of CO2, a single needle sliced the air, and as planned did not slice into Devin's labcoat.  He jumped, but found himself intact.  It still smarted, though.  "That's going to leave a good welt," Devin grumbled, flapping his arm.

"I'll kiss it and make it better," Gadget promised.  "Here's where the DLC comes in," she went on, voice turning much more serious.  She popped the ammo clip off the gun and slapped in the one from her pocket.  "I'll set the gun to half-strength just to make the point."  She ratcheted back a lever on her weapon and sighted in on the dummy, squeezing the trigger again and again.  Several satisfying _THWAP!_s resulted, and she gestured Devin over.  Uneasily, Devin approached, and was astonished to see the dummy bristling with needles—not only on its poor head, but embedded firmly in the vest made of the miracle fabric.

"DLC," Gadget said, to a very confused rat doctor.  "Diamond-Like Carbon.  A triumph of science.  And our secret weapon against the forces of evil."

Devin staggered back a step.  "You—diamond-coated the needles?  So we've got a real edge on them?"

"In more ways than one," Turner called across the chamber.  "Can I put that poor dummy out of its misery, Gadget?"

"You just want to show off.  Oh, go ahead, I got to have my bit of fun.  It's only fair."

Shutting off the sewing machine (which seemed to almost sigh with relief), Turner cracked his knuckles in anticipation.  He snagged his swordbelt from a nearby peg and flung it on.  In a very few, very large strides, he had crossed the floor of the workshop.  Grim as an executioner, he pulled out his sword, a length of razor-sharp steel as wide as an outstretched paw.

With a casual flick of the sword (a hefty swing for anyone else), he slashed across the dummy's chest, and it fell neatly in two.  Even the vest parted like water.  Turner reached up and absentmindedly pulled out a whisker as Devin winced.  Turner calmly turned the sword on edge and trimmed the whisker into two tiny ribbons.  "Gadget's little machine doesn't just coat needles, Devin.  She gave you a blade of your own, treated the same way, though she figured you'd need something a little less flashy—"

Devin turned back to Gadget, about to ask, but she beat him to it.  "It's in your pocket.  The left one, with the zipper."

Devin frowned and felt about for it.  There was a feeling of something, about the size of a toothbrush still in its packaging, pressing against his side.  He unzipped the pocket and retrieved a slim rectangular contraption with an elastic strap attached.   Gadget rolled up the sleeve on his good paw and slid the strap over it, so that the slim little container fit along the underside of his wrist.  She rolled the sleeve back down over it.

"Now," she cautioned him, "hold out your paw open, away from anything else, and flick your wrist like this."  She made a sweeping motion with a twist, backing away a bit.

Devin shook his head, trying to take it all in, but stretched out his paw and gave it a try.  He made a small surprised sound as several inches of steel rocketed out and a handle sprang into his waiting paw.  The brighter-than-steel edge of a scalpel glimmered at him as he held it up to a nearby worklamp.  "Holy crap," he understated.  The scalpel itself was a custom job, like an extension of his paw, with a delicate G.H. stamped into the handle.

"A doctor should always have his tools close at paw," explained Gadget, grinning slyly.  "And it never hurts to have a little something extra up your sleeve."

"I don't know how I feel about carrying it.  But I guess we are at war.  It's beautiful work, Gadget, all of it—even if it's a little disturbing."

Gadget's smile fell a bit.  "The Rangers never carried weapons, really.  We never needed them.  But we got caught unprepared.  That's not going to happen this time.  I won't let it."  She bit her lip, and began to tear up.

_She hasn't forgiven herself,_ Devin mourned inside for her.  _Gadge__, Gadge—it wasn't your fault.  Don't let it eat you up._  Afraid that he might remind her more of her terrible loss, he decided to butter her up a little.  "I'm glad you put your initials on that scalpel.  I've never seen a nicer one.  I just hope I use it more as a healer than a fighter.  I'm surprised you'd want to do the same for that big clunky needle-gun, though."  He gestured with the scalpel at the old-style gun parked on the workbench.

After a long stretch of surprising Devin with her new contraptions, it was Gadget's turn to be confused.  "I didn't put my initials on that thing.  I feel a little dirty just touching it.  It's clever, and well built, but it's only meant for one thing—killing.  I'd just as soon never have to pick it up again.  I didn't even make that one—"

"—it's an old prototype I found the last time Group B had to pick up and move.  I figured it wouldn't be missed as bad as one of the newer ones," Turner seconded.

"But back in the bedroom, when you came in and showed it to me, I saw some scratches on the barrel.  It looked like letters."

"I've been over that thing with a fine-tooth comb, but—hey, wait a minute," she shoved some notes and blueprints aside and retrieved a magnifying glass.  "I never did look at it from that angle.  You've got sharp eyes—"

Gadget trained the glass on a series of scratches on the underside of the barrel.  Turner and Devin came over to watch.  Gadget stuck one of the used needles under the glass to trace the scratches. "Ah!  There they are.  Looks like—"  Gadget drew back, totally mystified.  "—you're right, Dev.  They couldn't be anything else.  But I swear, I didn't put them there.  Besides, there's an extra 'G'."

Faint, but plainly visible, were the initials G.G.H. .  Devin scratched his head.  Gadget's tail slapped the floor in consternation.  "You don't have any idea, do you, Turner?"

Turner pursed his lips over his razor-sharp teeth, praying he looked sincere.  "None at all," he lied.

Button images by Keith Elder


	40. Chapter 40

****

Chapter Forty

_My name is what I make.  Remember that.  Got to remember it.  Don't have a damn thing to write on down here.  At least I'll have my memoirs memorized by the time I get out._

The inventor would have found a visual description of his workshop almost fantastical.  He had never seen it properly himself, and after this long he was more comfortable working in the dark.

_They put things in my paws.  They ask me what I need and I had better answer quick, or else it's pain again.  Always have a ready answer and don't get personal.  Don't try to figure out which one of them it is asking this time.  _

The casing felt like an oversized beach ball made of honeycomb.  A mathematician, maybe, would have found a certain beauty in the object until someone told him or her what it was.

_Just ask for the materials and turn them around quick, put them together and send them out.  Don't even know when it's dark any more, but I hear them take the lid off and the eyes hurt.  When I give them their toys and they go away, they take the light with them and some of the pain, so work well and work quick.  That's what I have, quick paws and a moment's peace when I'm done._

The Commander had never ordered anything on this scale, or quite so complex, before.  It was more complicated than it needed to be, but quiet and lethal.  Tests of the scale model put the damage, as far as the inventor could pick from his captors' fevered glee, at a resolution of "impacts per square inch".  This at twenty paces.

_Almost forgotten what it's like to make something I can see, something for myself, something I can work on until the rough edges are off.  This is a one-time-use project.   Pride in craftsmanship?  Pfeh.  Pride is for the free.  No, for me it's piecework.  If I were paid by the piece this would be a legendary payday._

_I wonder if I hid the defect deep enough?  Will He find it this time?_

In his mind's eye, the inventor saw his clockwork globe as lines of wire, compressor cylinders, triggers and relays.  He mentally spun it around and pulled off a few layers.  A master electrician, working with a skilled watchmaker perhaps, might have noticed a speck of insulation rubbed off a choice wire, an extra gear.  The inventor had been caught before trying something like this; a broken leg left to heal at an unnatural angle had been partial payment for that trick.

_Well, at least when this one fails, it'll fail in a spectacular fashion.  A few extra seconds for the target to react, and a nasty surprise for whoever triggers it.  If I broke it right._

_I wish they'd come down here and cut my fur.  It impedes my efficiency when my fur catches in a spring or a rotor.  I would honestly rather be shaved than work under these conditions.  I will ask to be drugged, I think, and perhaps they will shave me then.  They remember the last time someone came down here to try--took the shears away from him, didn't I?   I can still smell the blood on hot days.  That was probably the last time I really felt like myself, but they're more careful now._

The inventor reached into a recess, the one feature breaking the seamless pattern of the globe's surface.  He did not press the first button his pawpads found (that would have been very painful, and stupid besides).  He skittered his way past that one and pressed on a perfectly normal-feeling, smooth plate, almost out of reach deep inside the machine.  He withdrew his paw, stepped as far back as his shackles would allow, and waited for five seconds.

The darkened workshop was filled with several thousand targeted jets of air, making the inventor's leg-shackles and chains rattle with the force of their passing.  Spare parts rocketed off the workbench and a wrench embedded itself in the wall.  The inventor winced as he tugged a rubber washer out of his whiskers (it had crushed half of them and become entangled in the survivors).

_Should have cleared up better first.__  Damn lucky the thing wasn't loaded yet._

_Can't help thinking.__  Plenty of time for it.  I still do think about a lot of things.  I'm not a robot, not yet—I am not just arms that move and paws that make.  They have taken everything from me except the chance to create.  The chance to make awful things that should stay in the dark and not be taken up to the world of the light and the living.  Well, let them choke on this one awhile. _

"What the hell is all that racket down there?!" thundered a voice through a crack that appeared in the darkness.

Shying away from the light, the inventor knew the right answer by now.  In the most pitiful tone he could muster, he trembled a mournful reply.  "I w-was t-testing the device and I've hurt myself..."  He cowered and limped and hoped he looked a wreck.

The guard above hummed in a satisfied way.  "Good," he said, and dropped the lid back.

The inventor stood straight again as though nothing had happened.

_Don't want to know what they use my toys for, but I can guess..  Some kill at a distance, killing quick.  Others hurt, up close and slow, meant for someone when you've got them in a hole like this one.  I used to send my contraptions up obviously broken, half-working, but then He would come down here, the Commander, and choke me just enough to make his point.  Hissing into my ear, "you're better than that.  Make it work."  _

_Once they brought me a broken water pump.  Desktop fountain or a small aquarium, originally.  To do my job I sometimes have to know what the machine is used for, so I asked.  They beat me around the shoulders (never the head, never the paws—Commander's orders). "To pump water, you sniveling idiot!  We're thirsty!"  I broke down and wept—they probably thought it was from their beating, but it was from the sheer joy of working on a machine that would not kill._

_In another life, perhaps, I will mend a gate.  Fix some plumbing.  Won't fly an airplane again, not with these eyes, but I'll ride.  My daughter—give her popsicle sticks and a rubber band, and she was airborne.  She'd be old enough to sit up front by now.  Oh, God, let there be another life far from this one.  So little gives me hope, and when I get a little hope I never dare to believe in it._

The inventor crouched and slid to one side where he knew a mattress lay.  Tools from the workbench had flown far enough to nestle in its surface—half sitting, he picked them off carefully and piled them aside.  He wrenched around painfully in his shackles, folding himself into an improbable shape before getting a proper lie-down.  His captors had not made rest an easy prospect.

_The Growler gave me a bit of hope last week, it's what set me thinking again.  Shook me up out of drone mode and back to myself.  Unexpected person to give me hope.  A very large rat, of course I've never seen his face.  He crowds and looms when he's down here, asks more questions than any of them, and has more of a temper than most.  He's unpredictable, all bluster and threats when he comes here with company, but downright polite when he comes alone._

_He's given me a scar or two, putting the squeeze on me.  Don't think it's all his fault; I hear his claws clatter on anything he picks up, and I know they're sharp.  I know he's also sharper upstairs than anyone, especially the Commander, gives him credit for.  He's got plans within plans, that one.  "I've got someone important," he whispered to me last time he was here.  "Someone on the outside.  Someone who knows how to break your toys."  One of my guards called down to him and he left in a hurry._

_He left me quite a puzzle.  I know he hates the Commander, they all do.  There's something missing with the Growler, though.  He has absolutely no fear or respect for the murdering bastard.  Mostly though, I wonder what he means by "I've got someone".  Does he have an ace in the hole, quite literally, like the Commander has "got" me?  Is there any real good in the Growler, or is he just better with words?_

_The Growler likes my quick-killing toys better, though I hear no pleasure in his voice when he comes for any of them.  Perhaps he is a monster with less malice in his blood.  Maybe he will let some air into the Commander before he uses my devil's beach ball.  Perhaps soon I will be taking orders from the Growler instead, and maybe he will give me a few minutes a day above ground._

The inventor closed his eyes and his world looked exactly the same.

_Perhaps he will be dead the next time I hear of him._

Button images by Keith Elder


	41. Chapter 41

****

Chapter Forty-One

What was left of the Rescue Aid Society headquarters was about the size and shape of a circus sideshow tent when something's gone very wrong.

You know how it goes.  Things come unstrung, the lights go out, the ceiling ripples down in slow motion, and everybody pokes arms and legs around under the canvas, looking for a way out.  People laugh and point from outside. 

It was sort of like that, without the soft ceiling, and without the laughing and pointing.

There were not enough screams.  Battered and ears ringing, crawling away at the edge of the madness, that's what Bernard had thought to himself just after.  The blast had actually done some damage to his eardrums, for one, but the sad fact was, no one screams when they're dead.

He had dragged Bianca out of a jumble of splintered wood and battered masonry that had once been the central dais of the Assembly hall, and only later had found time to kick himself for it.  One slip and he might have done her a fatal injury, but by the time the room had settled, it could have done her in anyway.  The whole scrambled mess had settled lower and lower, plaster dust and scattered paper still raining down.

The Swiss delegate had been crushed by falling bank records from an office above, as it turned out.  The irony might have earned a chuckle if Bernard hadn't known that the delegate's name was Adelaide, and if he and Bianca hadn't gone skiing with her last season.

As the dead go, Adelaide had been lucky.  She could at least be reached, if not helped.  An hour of carting paper away had revealed her sad wreck, pressed like a leaf with too much juice left in it.  Her compatriots from a far-flung world of bureaucrats, heroes and brave fools lay in the deeper rubble.  Most would stay there.

In a few hours, the place would be sealed off by a ton of concrete, conveniently explained away on the human side as an error in paperwork.  It was a trick Bernard and Bianca had laid the groundwork for years before, praying they'd never have to use it.

Someone asked Bianca, years later—how did they know that there wasn't anyone left alive, trapped but unconscious deep in the rubble?  She would shake her head, cross her pawpads for luck, and say (as though she were trying to convince herself), "We had a thousand sets of ears, low to the ground.  Whiskers out and twitching, noses sniffing.  How could we have missed anyone?  How could we…"

The lower echelons, the paper-pushers and office runners of Rescue Aid—many of those had survived, as the Assembly hall was the main target.  Some from the home office, others called in from assignments across the country, yet more smuggled through customs--most had been unceremoniously promoted.  And a great contingent of them were swarming over the remains of the central hall, putting things into more or less orderly piles, bunching up in occasional clusters of fear and hope when an arm or a leg poked out of the rubble.  A pawful of victims had come out of the wreckage alive, but that had been in the early hours.  Good news was in short supply by now.

The noise, however, hadn't let up one bit.  A mélange of jackhammers, power saws, and shouted messages greeted the nervous visitors, on the worst day the place had ever seen.

The smell was unmentionable.  To animals who lived by smell, it was obscene.  A little Vicks on the snout overpowered most of it, but the serious searchers choked back the bile and suffered.  Putting on the ointment was like putting on a blindfold, and this was no time for it.

Thumpily, bumpily, Dennis manhandled a creaky, oversized wooden wheelchair with Timothy in it, through a half-unhinged entrance door.  A pocket of floor had been cleared, ringed with blaring lights mostly turned outward to the encroaching chaos. 

Tina hefted a shoulder-bag full of papers Elizabeth and Justin had given them—agriculture reports, security briefings from Arthur and a still-furious Cynthia (Gadget and Devin had disappeared under the noses of her Guard, after all).  It was a hefty packet of information, but Tina felt like she was bringing the proverbial coals to Newcastle.

Bianca noticed her discomfort and clicked her tongue.  "You can tell my mind is other places today.  Don't carry that around—"

She put her paw to her mouth and whistled—a sweaty dark-furred squirrel, a rather large specimen, bounded over.  _Looks like Runner on steroids,_ Timothy thought to himself.

"Torsten, be a dear and take this back to Dennis' limousine.  It's our office for now," sighed Bianca.

Bernard tossed a keyring at him.  "The big key is for the strongbox.  Some of those papers are sensitive—no sense in them getting lost in all this mess."

"Ja," nodded the squirrel, "would be too easy problem," and gently removed Tina's burden, as easily as picking up an acorn.  Just as quickly as he'd come, he bounded out of the hall.  He looked relieved for an excuse to get out of the place, and Tina didn't blame him one bit.

_The teeth—the accent—_Tina signed to Timothy.  _Arnold Squirrelschenegger, _she spelled out.  He had to snort in spite of himself.

"Don't worry, Torsten will guard those reports with his life.  Until he locks them up.  And we have the limo under guard.  You never know when we might need a quick getaway.  Our upstairs neighbors at the U.N. have no idea how much damage there is down here,"  Bianca waved about at the mess, and the visitors' minds boggled at the thought that it might still be a secret to anybody.

"They grow them big over there in the Black Forest, don't they?  If we had half a year, and an army of helpers like Torsten and your brother," Bernard coughed, hobbling toward one of the glaring temporary lights with Bianca's help, "we might get somewhere.  But this is an evacuation, not a restoration."

Timothy wrinkled his nose.  "Excuse me?  What was that about my brother?"

"We didn' mention aught?" Dennis whipped Timothy's new old chair around and pointed through the gloom, down a ragged pathway plowed through the debris.   "Martin got 'ere yesterday.  He's o'er there with 'is team."

"Team?" frowned Tina, her paws fidgeting.  She was glad not to be carrying or pushing anything, but Dennis was driving Timothy's chair like he drove the limo.  All right angles and snap turns.

"Aye, his team." chimed in Bianca, her Hungarian accent colliding with a Scottish brogue.  Dennis gave her a dirty look.  "I mean, yes, darling.  I was just saying how nice it was to see more Brisbys coming to help. I know Elizabeth would have, if she'd known."

"But she'll have her paws full getting us replacement offices ready at Thorn Valley," grimaced Bernard.  "At least, once the courier reaches her.  If she's not out tearing up the countryside looking for Devin and Gadget."

Talk of future plans among this looming rubble was making Timothy feel rather small.  "This isn't what a merger is supposed to look like," he groused.  "And I'm no good here!  What, can I hold a pencil? Direct traffic?"

"Our excellent driver Dennis is the only able-pawed member of our little clique, as I'm sure you've noticed," sighed Bernard as he and Bianca teetered against each other, trying to find grips on each other that did not involve bandages.

"My paws are able," bristled Tina.  "And currently unoccupied.  Tell me what to do."

"For now, be a witness, and stay out of the way when asked," cautioned Bianca.  She turned to Timothy.  "You three go say hello to Martin, and try to get him to rest for a second.  And Dennis?"

"Yes'm?"

"Shake up Timothy any more in that thing and you'll be holding pencils.  A lot of them.  In a cup on a street corner.  Do you ken that well enough?"

Dennis wrung his tweed cap apologetically in his hands.  "Aye. No further damage to tha invalid."

Tina poked Dennis' tweed cap halfway off his head.  Timothy shuddered.  "Remind me to be offended later.  Just drive."

"Will you two be all right?" Tina fretted.  Bernard and Bianca looked like an optical illusion as they wobbled and tilted in place—taken separately, either one of them would have fallen over.

"We're going to find someplace quiet," Bernard said.

"Yes, dear, somewhere we can sit and bleed to ourselves," Bianca finished for him.  It didn't sound very reassuring.

Bernard seemed to remember something.  "Take this," he said, rummaging in his coat.  He tossed a small screw-cap bottle to Tina, who snagged it.  Even with the lid closed, it slightly fuzzed out the world of smell around Tina, with a grey medicinal efficiency.  "You'll know what it's for when you need it."

Dennis whistled tunelessly to ward off a helpless sense of doom.  It might have worked for him, but not for the others.  Timothy wished he could trade ears with Tina for a little while. 

_Wonder if I'll even recognize Martin,_ signed Timothy.  The path had opened up wide enough for Tina to walk beside him, and luckily someone had slapped a few boards down for a very temporary walkway.  The noise was growing steadily worse as they approached, as though all the activity in the shattered hall were coming from a point ahead.

_He's your brother,_ she signed back.  _He can't have changed that much._

"Want ta bet?" muttered Dennis, taking a break from his atonal sputtering.

Timothy shot a displeased glance over his shoulder. "Eavesdropping, eh?" he raised his voice over the din.  "You can add that to your list of character flaws."

"T'aint eavesdropping when you flap your paws in plain sight.  Heh.  And yore brother's a sight!  You jus' wait."  He let go of the wheelchair for a second and made an odd set of signs with his paws, spelling some of it out.  _Loch Ness Monster,_ it came out.  A bit stiff, but clear enough to make Tina's eyes go wide.

_How do you know sign language? _ she signed.

_Not well very,_ he mangled, and shrugged.  "Helpful now and then, when I was in communications.  Ain't no communicating with that Martin feller less'n he feels like it, though."

A rhythmic hiss and expulsion of air grew louder as the path rounded a corner ahead.  Timothy winced, startled.  He was sure it was a steam engine of some sort, but on one break in the noise he heard a low cursing.  One wall of the path shifted a bit as a large chunk of something landed nearby. The boards beneath them jumped and chattered against each other.

"You'll have someone's head off if'n you're not marr careful!" Dennis warbled, placing himself between the wall and Timothy.  Tina took cover behind the wheelchair, Timothy reaching out a paw to reassure her.

The hissing stopped. "Someone help me with this damn thing!" rumbled a basso voice.

"That means you, Dennis," shrugged Timothy.  None too pleased, the Scot scuttled around the corner.

"Aye, that's marr than enough for even you," Dennis grunted, out of sight.  Tina managed to get the wheelchair moving again, and nearly pushed Timothy over in her astonishment when she saw what was around the corner.

It looked like Atlas holding up the earth.  A battered, lopsided earth, but still--

Timothy looked hard at the mouse straining—but not much—under the remains of Rescue Aid's suspended globe.   It was three times his height, but the problem with the piece of globe was not just weight—there was simply nowhere appropriate to put it down. 

With a mighty shove, the mouse impaled the piece of globe on a jutting metal beam as Dennis helped guide the rocking, teetering thing.  "Stay there, damn yer!" Dennis barked. 

"Whew," breathed the world-lifter.  "You're a bitter pill sometimes, Dennis, but you're useful."  He was a broad-shouldered, thick-necked fellow, his short but powerful body and the set of his jaw instantly reminding Timothy of his sister Cynthia.  A moment later, he figured out why.

"Martin?  Don't tell me that's you underneath all that—"

"—underneath all this plaster and plywood?  I always said I'd take on the world."   

"Actually, I meant, underneath all that mouse muscle," Timothy got in edgewise.

"Obtaining it wasn't much fun," Martin grinned, picking up a wobbly, hang-glider-sized piece of sheet metal and turning his badly bloodshot eyes their way. "But using it is. When I'm not digging bodies out of a trash heap.  New chair?"

"New arms?" Timothy shot back.

"New fur?" seconded Tina, for she had just realized another striking change in Martin.  His fur had turned a pure and uniform white, as white as Dr. Ages' fur, his scrapes and cuts leaping out all the worse for it.  "Did someone give you a fright?"  It was the only thing she could think to ask.

Martin winced good-naturedly.  "Just the world in general.  Lots of changes, most bad."

"Some things stay the same.  Still screwing our sister?" Timothy deadpanned.

This time, Martin's wince was less amused.  His paws wrenched and twisted at the sheet metal.  "That was uncalled for, Timothy.  We covered that ground a long time ago."

"And you're still plowing it," Timothy nodded cheerily.  Dennis grunted in distaste, which just made Timothy feel better.

Martin growled, but sighed and tossed the sheet metal away like a discus, with both bulging arms and a chuckle.  "You never were afraid to speak your mind.  I always did wish you could turn it off now and then, though."

"Me too," Timothy grimaced.

"D-do you still expect to—" Tina gulped, "—find anyone under there?"  Martin had dug deep into one of the bristling, jumbled walls of debris, bracing the edges with broken timbers and anything else he could find.

"I'm looking for the rest of someone," Martin growled, a dark anger rippling suddenly in him.  "Don't ask," he commanded.  Tina didn't push it.

With a flurry of wings, a lady bat swooped in and batted a wing at Dennis in greetings (not to mention a set of long eyelashes).  Dennis looked surprised but not unhappy, whisking his hat off and half-bowing.  "Foxglove?  Found me again, eh?  You must have radar."

The bat shrugged.  "Well, actually—"

"Eh, I forgot.  You c'n hear me a mile away.  What did you break this time, Foxy-lady?"  A light and boyish grin belied his usual suspicious squint.  Timothy almost liked him for it.

Foxy retrieved a squawking walkie-talkie from her belt, and twiddled at the dials awkwardly.  "Need some help here, Den—getting some awful feedback, and I'm all  
claws—"  Dennis took it gently from her and turned it over in his paws, scratching his head.

Dennis growled, just for show.  "Jus' when I thought I could get away fro' the communications bizness." 

Martin stretched and it looked like continental plates rubbing against each other.  "I've got them from here.  Good luck tweaking your transistors."

"Sure, fine," Dennis waved Tina and the Brisby brothers on, over one distracted shoulder.  He retreated toward the hall's entrance, waving the radio at the bat.  "'s all scratched.  Did ya try biting it, or what?"

"No," shrugged the bat.

"Well, tha's the first thing you should have tried…" Dennis faded out as they rounded a corner.

"Ooh, how technical," Foxglove chortled, and they were gone.

"Never figured him for the bat type," mused Martin.

"I hear once you go bat, you never go back," Timothy chuckled.

"AHEM", coughed Tina, kicking Timothy's chair and making Martin jump.  _I'll deal with you later,_ she signed.  "Excuse me, Martin?  Bernard and Bianca mentioned you were here with your team.  Who did they mean?"

Martin crouched beside Timothy's wheelchair and patted one of his own bulging shoulders.  "You'll never get there in that thing.  Climb on."

Martin had always been strong, but never the powerhouse he was now.  And somewhere along the way he had lost a certain brutish quality, along with the lumbering swagger Timothy remembered.  It had been replaced with a frightening grace for a mouse of his size—even with Timothy's added weight, Martin bounded to the top of the ridge of refuse. 

Tina, forced to struggle behind, nearly crawling, got a much different view of the trip up than Timothy.  Skewed stacks of paper, broken file cabinets, a letter opener that nearly pierced her paw—it was something like an office supply store turned on its side and shaken by a giant. 

Just as she was feeling relieved (and a bit guilty, for no reason) that she hadn't seen a dead body yet, she was confronted with a spiky pile of rebar, with a tattered sheet draped over it.  The coppery smell of blood assaulted her nose, a delicate note of decay creeping in underneath—like a diver scrambling for a lost air-hose, Tina fumbled Bernard's little bottle of Vicks ointment out of a pocket and smeared some under her nose.  The menthol thundered into her nostrils and made her eyes water, but then again they hadn't been too dry to start with.

The edge of a paw hung limply out, from one edge of the sheet—Tina shuddered, forced herself to reach out and pull the sheet down over it.  A tag dangling from the paw still peeked out:  "S. Dellafreccia, Italy", as though the unfortunate fellow were a museum piece.  A short and terrible question was also scrawled there:  "Move?"

Only then did she notice the small flag, its wooden pole strapped neatly to one of the metal bars with duct tape.  The green, white, and red Italian Tricolor cut a swath through its steel-and-gray, dusty surroundings.  She crouched, gaping at it, until a rhythmic thumping vibration shook her sensible.

Martin was up above, pointing beyond the rise and stamping the ground with one foot.  Timothy held on to his brother's massive neck for dear life. 

With a heartfelt if inadequate "Spiacente, signore," to the late Mr. D., Tina left the sad scene and joined the others at their higher perch.  The effect was lost on Tina, but a trick of acoustics cut off nearly all sound from the search and salvage behind them.

Cresting the rise, all Tina could do was stare.  Martin closed his eyes and muttered—he'd seen too much of it already.

Sweeping arcs of seats and tables had once stairstepped down toward the now-ruined dais in the center of the tumult.  Now, something like the lines of sand a rake leaves in a Zen garden, there were still furrows and hills tracing their ghostly outlines.  Almost as if someone had expected the departed delegates to come reclaim their places, the jumble was dotted with the flags of every nation represented at the Rescue Aid Society.

A colder than expected draft was wheezing from the gaping holes above, where whole floors had dropped their contents onto the uncomprehending faces gathered below.  That chill wind now fluttered across the flags, standing out in die-cut colors against the grays, whites, browns and beiges of the ruins.  It defied narration.

_It's the moon,_ Tina flinched at an erratic thought.  _Who dropped us here?_

"They call it the 'salad bowl'," Martin said mirthlessly.  "They weren't calling it anything until Sophie started putting up the flags."

"Salad bowl?  That's awful!" Tina held her stomach with one paw and her nose with the other.  The Vicks was no match for the miasma of fear and death that hung over the place.

Timothy hung loosely over his brother's shoulders.  "Why do we always do that?  Why do we give these places silly names when something awful happens?"

Martin was quiet for a long while.  "I think we're built that way," he finally decided.  "I can't put it into words, quite, but it helps us bend instead of break."

Their reverie was broken as Tina pointed down into the depression (_That's just what I would have called it, too—"the depression",_ she thought queasily).  "What's that down there?"

Martin got a bead on the fluttering, rustling dot of color climbing toward them, and brightened considerably.  "Sweetness and light, Tina.  Not even this place can damp it down."  With Timothy still teetering on board, Martin hopped down to close the distance with the odd little figure waving her paws frantically at Martin—it was a very young mouse with a jumble, a riot of color tucked into every pocket, of which she had many.   They were leftover flags, the visitors realized, as she threw her arms around one of Martin's legs, still breathing hard.

Martin held Timothy steady with one paw as he crouched to put the other on Sophie's shoulder. "What's the matter, sweetheart?"

"Daddy, quick, you have to--" she started, but let go and took a step back to size up Timothy and Tina with a piercing crystal-blue stare.   "What are you two doing here?  You're pictures in a book."

Timothy furrowed his brow and cast an uncertain glance at Tina.  No signs were needed; Tina felt the same.  _What the—_

"'course you're not, 'course you're not," bubbled the pipsqueak.  "You're my uncle Timmy whose legs don't work and you're Tina-who-isn't-my-aunt-yet."

"You must be Sophie, then.  You've done such a pretty job with the flags," Tina gestured.

Sophie screwed up her face in indecision.  "Wasn't going for pretty, but it happened.  Flags aren't just for pretty, they tell you where you're at." Her sky-blue eyes teared over a bit and she wiped at them with one of the flags.  "Or were." 

As quickly as her somber mood had come, it was gone again.  She tugged at Martin's arm, nearly dislodging Timothy.  "Come on!  Mama said she'd wring my tail if I didn't bring Daddy back quick!"

"You know she didn't mean that,"  Martin rumbled, patting her gently on the head as to not drive her into the floor like a railroad spike.

"Oh, she means it," shuddered Sophie.  "She needs you!  She found somebody alive!"

Collective jaws dropped.  "After this long?!  That's great news!" gasped Tina.

Sophie shook her head.  "People want to kill him with a shovel."

"That isn't great news," Timothy groaned.  There was always a catch…

Button images by Keith Elder


	42. Chapter 42: Answers, naturally

****

Chapter Forty-Two

The boards had danced beneath him like a magic trick gone haywire, and as he burst through into the space below, he felt an unfamiliar and fleeting sensation.  All weight seemed lifted from his body as he fell, just for a second, and as though he'd found his natural habitat too late, he managed one free breath in freefall.

For that moment he was only a piece of flotsam in the flying whirl of destruction raining down upon the upturned and gasping faces.  It burned like a snapshot in his memory, those ranks of wide little eyes that probably had not even had time to register his presence before the falling ceiling and all the rest had blotted them out.  For good.  For bad.  Forever.

_I must look like a whale falling out of the sky, _his mind danced.  _A skywhale--_

Athletic he was not.  Graceful—well, somewhere deep within lay a pearl of long-slumbering reflex. He registered a split-second of personal pride as he slammed into the Assembly Hall floor, punctured by lumber and nearly flattened by falling concrete.  He'd broken three limbs, but at least had twisted his thunderous bulk around.  And landed on his feet.

All was dark.  Before he passed out from the pain, he chuckled to himself.  Two of the gray-uniformed Group B fighters lay crushed beneath his bulk, under his broken hind legs.  Hadn't he given them the surprise of their lives?  _Ahh__.__  I _w_ent out like a cat.  Went out like a--_

Lights out.

Half an eternity dragged by…

His body played a terrible mean trick on him and let him stay unconscious for a whole day before he woke up and realized he wasn't dead.  The interrupted bombers lay squashed beneath him, though.  And they were beginning to get a bit gamy.  Not in eating condition.

_This is what happens when you get your own paws dirty,_ he sneered at himself.  _What was I thinking, rushing in to save the day?  I could have left an anonymous tip!  Sent a postcard!  I could have stolen the postage—_

After mentally chewing on himself, he settled down to the serious business of hurting.  That occupied all of his thoughts for a while.  He was punctured in several places, but his extra pounds had proven useful.  His layers of fat had obviously kept anything from piercing a vital organ.

Above, a cacophony of hammering and power-sawing cheated him of any chance of rest.  They were searching, seeking—but the ones they were hoping to find were far too small, and dashed to smaller pieces.

_Buzz around, busy little bees.  Your hive is broken.  Me, when I get out of here, I'm going to eat a gallon of caviar.  If it goes straight to my hips, all the better, _he purred.  He tried to shift himself with his one free paw, but made little progress.  He had survived these last long hours on sips of air and curiosity, and though he had all the energy reserves anyone could hope for, a crystal dish full of Perrier would have been appreciated.  No, no, flat old tap-water would be just fine, out of a plastic tub if need be.

His welcome was not quite that… welcome, as it turned out.  A little mouse moved aside a chunk of lathe and plaster and saw one beady, twitchy eye peering back at her—

"Elizabeth?" he rumbled.  "Is that you?"  She certainly looked it--

The mouse shook her head violently, shrieked like a teakettle, and then the poor thing nearly died of fright on the spot. 

Normally, the trapped cat would have been gratified at the reaction, but it didn't do him much good just now.  And that lump pressing into his side!  How it bothered…

A raccoon, his eyes a little darker around the edges than usual from lack of sleep, had rushed to the mouse's aid (his first instinct was to pick up her limp form and wash her like an apple, but with no water nearby, he managed to fan some oxygen back into her).  Her swoon quickly attracted more attention; she seemed to be a person of some importance, and a mob of creatures quickly rallied to dig out her find.

"I'd keep to my left side if I were you," Fat Cat waggled his right paw.  "Small animals just might stir up my finely-tuned instincts, and WHAM!" he brought the paw slamming down too close, grinning wide as they skittered back. 

A beaver, looking like a buck-toothed bulldozer among the smaller creatures, slapped Fat Cat's paw with a massive paddle-tail.  Fat Cat yowled and pulled the paw back, flapping it.  "Just so we understand each other," he chuckled, tucking it back under his battered body.

Though he had seen better days, he was instantly recognizable, once unearthed.  His moustache was matted with blood from an inconsequential cut above one meticulous eyebrow; his whiskers were in disarray, and but for his huge bulk, the splintered lumber would have killed him like the poor Italian delegate Tina had stumbled onto earlier.  But he was obviously Fat Cat, so the growing collection of searchers and rescuers quickly turned into a classic pitchfork-and-torches mob.

The work lights gleamed on pickaxes, shovels, and a forest of tiny little pocketknives, needle points thirsty for blood.

"Dig him out and string him up!" someone yelled.

Fat Cat nodded thoughtfully.  "Yes, if you can find a ceiling to hang me from."

Teresa Brisby, who had first discovered him, would have none of it. 

"Sophie!" fretted Teresa, and the flag-laden little mouse at her side turned to look  "Go get your father!"  Teresa gave Sophie a push-start.  She nodded and disappeared in a rustle of color, up another pile of broken ceiling, where she would meet more Brisbys than she'd bargained for.

Ignoring Fat Cat's own advice, Teresa gulped, pulled herself straight, and before the others could stop her, rushed into his astonished right paw.  It curled tight around her and squeezed of its own accord.

Fat Cat gasped, and the crowd stared.  He relaxed his grip a touch as not to suffocate Teresa.  "Looks like you have a hostage," she muffled.  "Watch the ribs."

He spoke low to her.  "That was incredibly stupid.  Thank you."  He gathered up enough breath to speak to the assembled ill-wishers with a bit of his remembered authority.

"I have a list of demands…" he announced, as though he had his paw on all of them.  "Firstly, I must insist on a personal space of at least three feet, out of the range of all hand-held weapons and other implements of destruction," he bared his array of choppers, causing a few hearts to skip a beat despite his predicament.  Even pinned and immobile as he was, his gaze was enough to freeze the blood of the poor little beasts.  They shuffled back to leave him a ring of open space.

"Secondly, you will bring me something to drink.  Cold if possible!  Drug it if you must, but I'd rather not be poisoned. I'll be very touchy if I feel I'm being poisoned." He gripped Teresa a bit tighter.  "Squeak, dear, it's expected," he whispered to her, and she complied enthusiastically.  Disappointed mutters spread around the crowd. 

"Lastly," he sighed with regret, "After my drink, I must insist that you all leave."  He rolled back a bit, until it hurt him unbearably.  This revealed a digital timer strapped to a large grey wad of plastic explosives, indeed almost half as large as himself. 

The numbers were ticking inexorably toward zero.  His zero.  He eased his bulk back against the bomb, sudden tears of pain rolling down his mangled whiskers.  "Don't worry, I didn't bring this here.  Promise.  But if I could roll over just a little more, I do think it would explode.  Ever hear of a dead-man's switch?"

They had.  And no one wanted to be near it.  Like a furry flash flood, they fell all over themselves to get out.

Martin bounded along in the wrong direction, adrenalin and quiet anger keeping him knit into an undaunted knot of determination.  He would sleep for a week when he finally slept (days later, much the worse for wear).  His brother Timothy was no more to him than a feather on his back--an extra set of eyes and a mouth telling him to watch out.

Sophie, like a babbling pebble in his hands, had filled in a few gaps in the story.  Martin was angry at Teresa for putting herself in danger, angry at Fat Cat for being alive, angry at himself for deciding to scoop up Tina along with Sophie, just to get closer to a bomb—quicker.

Tina was tucked under one of Martin's arms like a baguette, asking questions but not hearing any of the answers, of course.  She was beginning to fold over uncomfortably in the middle, and had to keep picking up her feet.

People with better ideas—and no Brisby family ties—were dashing the other way as quick as their furry little legs would take them.  No walking upright; they were headed for the exit on all fours—okay, so the kangaroo rats were jumping, but no one was wasting any time.

"Martin, mate!" one of them called on his way out.  "I'd hop the next train out!"

"I am the next train out," Martin growled, his body bristling with clinging Brisbys and Tina (one nearly).

"Rrright.  Step it up, all the same!"  The kangaroo rat pelted pell-mell, back into the rush.

The crowd thinned out the closer Martin bore his squirming burden toward Fat Cat.  Thoughts of feeling like rats fleeing a sinking ship seemed too grim for humor, and no one was in a mood to stop and chat, with a chunk of C-4 and a ticking timer not far behind.

Sound also diminished—the power tools had been the first to go, with everyone putting down their work to come rubberneck at the trapped cat.  Now that word of the bomb had gotten out, an unwelcome silence dropped over the Assembly hall as all signs of life hightailed it to any handy exit.  Soon the only sound to be heard was a jaunty, eerily chipper whistling, echoing around the battered landscape.

 Everyone but Tina and Sophie soon recognized the tune as an off-key attempt at "Only The Good Die Young".  They hoped it wasn't true.

When the entourage finally reached the half-covered mound that was Fat Cat, he stopped whistling.  Teresa, still clutched in his paw, took her own paws away from her ears.

"Thank goodness," she fumed.  "I thought my ears would start bleeding."

"If I could carry a tune," Fat Cat bristled, "I would have chosen a different line of work!  I would be thin and miserable, eating out of garbage cans,  but maybe I wouldn't be stuck through with splinters," he grimaced, twisting a bit.

Bits of metal and wood, sticking up from his blood-smeared back like a hedgehog's spikes, made a clacking sound as they slapped together.  One or two of the longer ones were actually run through him and into the floor, though they were mercifully hidden by his bleeding bulk and layers of former ceiling.

Tina finally wrested herself away from Martin and stood on her own two feet.  She felt like a piece of luggage.  _You okay?  _she signed at Teresa.

"Yeah, fine.  Just be glad you guys missed 'Stuck In The Middle With You'."

After running so far for so long, with arms full of relatives, even Martin was out of breath enough to need a few lungfuls of air before starting in.  "FAT CAT!" he boomed (as well as even a big mouse can boom).  "I don't know what you're doing here, but let my wife go!"

Fat Cat nodded, but caught himself halfway.  With genuine confusion, he scowled and bunched his whiskers.  "Wife—um, well.  Unless the Brisby family tree has developed quite a loop, wouldn't that be 'sister'?"

Sophie spoke up angrily from Martin's protective paws, her collection of flags rattling at him.  "Yeah, yeah, there's a loop in our tree, and I'm the fruit!  Let her go!"

Fat Cat blinked twice.  "You look like a fruit loop.  Small, round, and colorful.  Bet you'd taste good in milk, too," he smiled widely with his dagger teeth, and the mouse-girl retreated deeper into Martin's grasp.  "I'm only kidding, child," he reassured her, in a slightly wounded tone.

"Ahem—" coughed Teresa.

"Oh, yes, right—" Fat Cat remembered, and let her go with a shrug.  "I don't think anyone is coming back with my drink of water, anyway."

Teresa's clothes were rumpled but not a hair on her was harmed.  She dashed to Martin, who didn't have space for another Brisby.  He unloaded his remaining passengers to make room, then wrapped her up tight with a hug, and a long, relieved kiss on the lips.

"Now I've seen everything," Timothy grimaced at the reunion, not relieved at all.  "Someone poke my eyes out."

"Be nice, Timmy," Tina threatened.

"I am touched!" exclaimed Fat Cat.  "I am positively _run through_ with emotion.  Now get out."

Martin shrugged.  "He's got a point.  Let's pack up this circus and split."  Martin bent to hoist Timothy back onto his neck, but Timothy waved his arms in protest.

"Hold on!  We can't just leave him here!  I mean, he didn't hurt Teresa, so what's going on?"

Fat Cat bared his teeth and snapped at the collection of mice, who didn't have to pretend it frightened them.  "Shall I tell you a bedtime story, Mr. Brisby?  Do you all want to die with me, or run?  I would run."  He extended his paw, taut with anger now, and raked the air above their heads as they cowered.

Timothy shook off his instinctive fear and leaned forward.  "You didn't do this, did you?" He gestured widely at the destruction all around them.

"I prefer a nice surgical strike myself," growled the cat, "and a plot with some finesse.  This—" he rolled his eyes at the ruined Assembly hall, "is madness.  Waste.  HSSSS!! And cowardice!"

"Okay, so he didn't do it," agreed Martin, "let's go," and snatched Timothy off the ground again.

"Put me down!" Timothy flared, pounding on his brother's shoulder.  He twisted around, catching Martin off-balance and dragging him down.

"We're all going to blow sky-high!" shrieked Tina.  "Please, please, Timmy, don't make this difficult!"  Martin pinned Timothy to the ground and stopped his thrashing.

From under Martin's bulk, Timothy looked sadly at Tina.  Something in his eyes made her heart leap into her throat.  "Honey," he shook his head, "I'm not even started."

Martin stood up, brushed plaster dust off his fur, and glared at Timothy.  "What are you playing at, Timothy?  You're coming with us."

"No, I'm not.  Martin—you know I wired my own house.  Even after the accident and my legs.  Remember back when Arthur used to corner us and drag us into his workshop?"

Martin blinked.  "Lord, yes.  Bored me to tears with his Ohms and volts, capacitors and resistors.  I could hardly put a battery in the right way."

"Not me.  Remember?  I can strip down a radio in the dark and put it back together again, not that Arthur would let us talk on it.  I can do this, Martin."

"You're g-going to—" stammered Tina.

"Oh, but Timothy, if you're wrong," breathed Teresa.

"You and everyone else, get to safety.  No sense in risking all of us," Timothy gritted his teeth.

"No, no, no!" shrieked Tina.  "Pick him up, get us out of here!"

"I really think you should leave," rumbled Fat Cat.  "Live to fight another day, and all that folderol."

"Timothy?" Martin waited.

 "Sorry, guys," Timothy gulped.  "You're going to have to trust me on this one."

"I trust you, but you're not staying here!" wailed Tina, who tried to pry him loose from his grip on the ground.

Martin hissed his steam-engine hiss again, veins sticking out of his neck in fury.  He settled Sophie around his neck, and picked up Tina and Teresa under either arm.  Tina did not go quietly, but Martin was persuasive in such matters, and pinned her under one arm until she quit wiggling and merely sobbed in place.

There was not much bend left in Martin, but he loomed over Timothy.  "How much time do you have?" he seethed.

"About five minutes, I should think," Fat Cat chuckled.  "Just long enough to get in trouble."

"I'll be back in three," Martin said through his teeth.  "Alone.  And whether that bomb is disarmed or not, I'm dragging you out."

Timothy flopped onto his side and rolled closer to Fat Cat.  "Go, then!"

Martin bit his lip.  "Bro, if you screw this up, Mom is going to kill me."

"I won't," said Timothy, wishing it were a promise.  Martin turned away and grimly stalked off with his charges, Tina starting up a fresh round of curses and threats.  She stopped suddenly and looked back at Timothy, more frightened than he'd ever seen her.

Until then, he hadn't really been scared.  _I love you, _he signed at her, and she mouthed the word _please.  _The group dropped out of sight over the high edge of the "salad bowl" and were gone.

"Timothy, isn't it?" Fat Cat reached out his paw and tweezered Timothy up.  He sat him down closer and rolled back, hissing with pain, to give the mouse a better look at the device, sticky with blood.

"This isn't four sticks of dynamite taped to an alarm clock," whistled Timothy.  He laid his paws on a piece of scrap wood and levered up the digital timer, just a bit, to look at the leads running into the block of plastic explosive.  "Someone had a bank account."

"I'll bet my bank account is still healthier than theirs, even after all the money I've thrown into this damn crusade.  Mind the switch," growled Fat Cat.

"I can see it.  Don't worry, it looks like there's plenty of weight on it."

"Tact must have skipped a generation with the Brisbys," sniffed the cat.

Timothy flopped onto his side again to reach a glint of metal that caught his eye. "I'm not my mother.  She can run a small country, but she can't do this."  He unwadded a ball of aluminum foil, probably from some long-ago baked potato in an upstairs lunchroom.  He mashed it into a long crinkly rod and tucked it in around the bases of the leads.

"I can't see much of that, but it looks dangerous," Fat Cat twisted around.

"Be still!"  ordered Timothy, sudden sweat stinging his eyes.  _Oh, Tina, let this be the right thing to do— _He put his paws around the leads and aluminum foil, prayed, and yanked both at the same time.

A breath.

He and the cat did not fly into a million bits.

The timer ticked away happily, connected to nothing at all.  Fat Cat gasped as Timothy pitched it away and wiped his bloody paws on his shirt.

Fat Cat nearly melted with relief.  "Well!  A small set of paws can sometimes come in handy.  That's the timer—now, what about this damnable thing?"  Fat Cat inched his body back a bit more to reveal the dead man's switch, careful not to take too much weight off it.

Timothy leaned closer to get a better look—and froze.  _Tick tick tick tick…_

"The timer's dead.  What the hell is that?" Timothy lay his head down ever so gently against the block of explosive, and heard a faint electrical hum and click.  His whiskers went limp.  "It's a secondary…" he whispered.  He poked at the explosive gingerly, felt a patch that was not the same.

Retrieving his scrap of wood, he gingerly scraped a little of the explosive away, baring the edge of another digital readout, thinner and blinking digits.  "They hid it inside!" Timothy tore at his whiskers, with just a touch of admiration.

"Nice trick," nodded Fat Cat.  "How much time?"

"It's not set for seconds.  Counting down fast though!"  Numbers shrank, flitting by in mad flashes.  "Maybe thirty seconds!"

"Get behind something," sighed Fat Cat.  Timothy scraped at the edge of the timer.  "Behind something, you damaged little nitwit!" Fat Cat snagged Timothy, protesting as he dangled from the massive paw and dropped his makeshift tool.

"Now," Fat Cat continued, giving him a shake, and glad to have a more familiar command of the situation. "Will it hurt you any worse if I throw you?"

Timothy pushed ineffectively at Fat Cat's paw, trying to get his arms free.  "Look at my legs!  They can't get much worse.  Don't do it, though!  I can still stop this!"

"Not in fifteen seconds," Fat Cat bristled.  "Have a nice flight," and with that, he drew back his paw and flung the startled mouse over a pile of debris.  Just barely out of sight.  And too close.

"Aughhh!" cried the unseen Timothy.  "I kicked myself in the head!"

"Count your blessings!" Fat Cat called after him.  He looked down at the blinking timer with its shrinking row of red numbers, hardly able to get a glance at it for his sheer size.  _And all your money won't another minute buy,_ a snippet of an old song suddenly sprang into his head.

"What do they take me for?" Fat Cat sneered in disgust.  "Only poor people wait in line!  I will not have my schedule dictated by some preposterous machine!" he thundered imperiously. 

"Don't do anything stupid!" moaned Timothy.

"A grand exit is never stupid, Mister Brisby," he purred.

And rolled over.

Button images by Keith Elder


	43. Chapter 43

****

Chapter Forty-Three

Tina didn't know she was making a sound.

She had competition, to be sure.  The humans had come with their shrieking police cars, pounding on doors and pushing gawkers away, but mostly scratching their heads looking for the source of the explosion.  News vans had descended, one with a live remote from Dan Blather himself, but there wasn't much to tell. 

A few windows were broken at the U.N. complex, and a water main sent a gusher down the street into the gutter, but even the police would have been surprised how deep underground the blast had been.

They would never get the chance to see the real damage.  Rescue Aid Headquarters was gone, and so was Timothy.  A sad little cluster of stragglers huddled behind garbage cans in an alleyway.  They were congregated near a pitiful bubbling hole that would have been Timothy's last possible exit, assuming someone could have carried him.

"Someone's got ta pull her out of there," muttered Dennis, from the driver's seat of the limousine.  "We've lost enough o' the other delegates, won't do to have the newest one catching her death o'—"

"—let her alone," Bianca cut him off.  "Martin already tried." Through the passenger door of the limo, she and Bernard wearily, warily watched Martin tear around the alley, kicking at soda cans and shredding newspaper to bits with his claws, roaring wordlessly.

Tina was howling herself hoarse and no one could move her from the spot.  She had dully accepted the emergency blanket Bernard had hobbled over and tucked around her, but it gave no comfort.  If you've ever heard a cold, bitter wind whistle down a knife-edged canyon in the high desert, this was a lonelier sound.  Hopeless as the sound of ash crunching under foot in a burned forest.

_How did Timothy go?_  It was a question hovering at the edge of her shock and grief.  _Did it hurt? Was it quick?_

She would never know.  When it rains, it pours, and sometimes it pours concrete.

She had her paws thrust deep into the stuff.  Her tears beat down on it and made tiny dents.  Her fur was spattered with it, and it was drying in clumps.

Martin had started back into the underground ruins of the Rescue Aid headquarters after the explosion, enlisting several helpers to keep Tina from following.  With a good deal more pleading, he'd convinced Teresa to take little Sophie and get as far away as possible.  Delayed only for a few moments, he was caught completely unawares by a slithery grey mess of quick-drying cement rising in the twice-assaulted rubble of the Assembly Hall.

Now, having taken out enough wrath on inanimate objects, he went to scream at Bernard and Bianca, the wounded pair cowering in the limo like a pair of shivering puppies being kicked.

"FAILSAFE? Well, it sure as hell looks like it FAILED because my brother doesn't look too SAFE under there!"

"I'm so sorry, Martin," started Bernard.

"Plans were made. Everyone was told," quivered Bianca.  "Told five times at least, we'd never let the place be picked over by humans, we'd bury it first."

"With my brother in it?  Did you think to STOP IT?" Martin's jackhammer voice went on.  "Did you think of WAITING one goddamned SECOND?!"

"If it came to the worst," gulped Bernard, "and it has—we couldn't do it halfway.  The trucks were already on the move.  After that second blast, our communications—"

"SCREW YOUR COMMUNICATIONS!  And the half-wit who put them together!"

"Here, now—" started Dennis, taking personal offense.

Martin latched onto a door of the limo, nearly tearing it off its hinges.  "MY BROTHER IS DEAD!" he blasted, rattling the auto glass.  Some of the tint gave up and peeled off the windows. Tina felt it well enough to catch the words as they rolled through the earth.  She already knew they were true.

"Stop it," Tina mouthed, pulling her arms out of the muck and turning to watch Martin and his throbbing angry veins. She'd never gotten volume control down right, not since her hearing had been taken from her.  It looked like Martin would scream himself deaf if he didn't stop.  "STOP IT!!" she boomed, making Martin jump, the concrete hanging from his fur rattling together like a clumsy wind chime.  "He's gone!  It's not their fault, Martin, he was brave and he was stupid, and he's gone!"

Martin blinked at her.  "It's always somebody's fault." He sat down and leaned against the limousine.  "This time it's mine." He drew in a great gasping breath and let it hiss through his teeth.  His whiskers drooped and he let his paws trail down to rest by his side.  The animation seemed to have gone out of him, and he looked smaller and sadder than anything his size ever should.  "He was dead as soon as I left him down there.  I should have dragged him out kicking and screaming.  Screaming, at least.  He kicked his last kick a long time ago."

The concrete seemed to have settled—no more air bubbles were rising to the top, and all that marred its new smooth surface were a couple of indentations where Tina had reached into it.  Tina shook her head and reached a paw back toward it. 

"Bernard?  Bianca?" she asked dully.

"Yes, dear?" Bianca called back from the limo.

"Will it hurt anything if I leave…leave a message?  Something short, nothing secret, just so I know it's here?"

"It's all right," coughed Bernard.  "This was a secret exit.  From the looks of this alley, no one ever comes here."

"I will," said Tina. "Any time I get the chance."  She dipped her paw back into the concrete, not as deep this time, but drew a line and saw that it stayed.  She nodded her head and set to work.  When she was finished, she wiped her paws—and her eyes--on a scrap of newspaper.  "T.M. heart T.B.", she read her message out.  "That should be safe—T.M loved T.B., and they could be anyone at all.  Happy somewhere far away--minding their own business, not being heroes."

Spitefully, it seemed, a huge air bubble welled under her message and broke, flinging spatters of concrete at her eyes and obliterating her work.

"Oh, no," she mourned. "No, Timmy, no—can't I even leave a mark here for you?"  The concrete was uneven now, with leaves and half of a weather-beaten Styrofoam cup slowly oozing up through.  The pocket of air and debris had hopelessly muddled the surface.

"I'll help you clear off a spot," Martin grumbled, glad for anything constructive to do.

"I'm not entirely useless, y' know," harrumphed Dennis, and squeezed out the driver side door to join them.

They crouched down beside Tina and brushed aside as much litter as they could.  Tina ran into a stubborn bit and could not pull it up—if she could get it free, she'd have enough room to write.

"This might take all of us," grunted Martin, pulling at it.

Dennis took his hat off and flung it in the direction of the limo, then lay down to reach the lump.  "Wha—it's like a strip of wet rug or summat—"

Tina managed to wedge her arms around the thing.  "It's not a rug, it's solid in places.  Maybe if I—"

With a wet sucking 'plop', the obstacle came mostly free.  Tina shrieked in horror.

It was an arm.

Martin gulped and jumped into the mess, and to his wonder the arm was not detached.  More came with it.  Martin heaved, Dennis hauled, and Tina dragged, until a large blob of fur and concrete flopped out of the hole.

"What have you got there?" called Bernard, flopping painfully to one side in the limo.  "I can't see!"

"See?  Darling, you can barely move—" Bianca pulled him back upright.

The others scooped frantically at their found object, in the presumed direction of the head, and found all openings clogged with the foul grey stuff.  Tina placed both paws on its chest—yes, there was still a twitch, a tickle of life left somewhere in it.  She pressed down and concrete oozed from its mouth like elephant-colored toothpaste.  When she let up, some air seeped back into the forlorn shape, and it rolled itself onto its side.

"YARAUGHHH," it vomited, almost all concrete.  It folded up in two and spat, its tongue coming free.  "GET IT OFF ME!!"

"Timothy? Timothy!" Tina flung her arms around the pitiful creature, which flailed its paws.  Realizing he wasn't under attack, Timothy gingerly folded his mucky arms around Tina, who fell to pieces and pelted him with tears.

When she let him go, still unrecognizable under the concrete and not even able to open his eyes, Martin and Dennis rolled Timothy against the curb.  A steady stream flowed down the curb toward a grate, from the broken water main up the street. Timothy gasped and sputtered as his three rescuers rubbed his fur, and he began at last to look half-drowned instead of caked over.

"It's in everything," groaned Timothy.  "Ahh!  My head!  It's in my head!"

"Hush, sweetheart, it's okay.  What happened, how did you get out?"  Tina reached for his head, but he winced and jerked away.

"Timothy, you scared us to pieces!"  cried Martin.  "Come on, tell us!"

Timothy opened his eyes and cocked his head to the side.  "Shell us?" he asked.  "Sorry, I'm—I'm reading your lips.  Can't hear a thing."

"Ears plugged tight with concrete, I'll warrant," Dennis surmised, and whipped out a handkerchief.  Tina took it and wiped at one of Timothy's ears.  She fished out a good quantity of concrete, but it was like pulling a plug.  Blood drained down from his ear into his whiskers, a lot at first but slowing to a trickle.

"Timothy!  Oh, God, Timothy, what's happened to you?"

Timothy frowned, dabbing at the blood and watching Tina's face intently.  "It probably looks worse than it feels," he lied.  "Do the other side, please."  Tina nodded and got the same results with his other ear.  "Damn, that smarts!"

"Beats the alternative," grinned Martin.

Timothy bit his lip.  "This is getting tedious.  It's like a silent movie, I can't even be sure I'm talking out loud."

Tina clicked her tongue.  "You must have been so close to the blast that it blew your eardrums out!  We'll have Dr. Ages take a look at you."

Timothy suddenly seemed to remember something, and grinned broadly.  "I get to show him my trick.  I think he'll like it."

"What—" started Tina, but she never got to finish asking.  Timothy reached out and put both arms against the curb, pushed up with arm muscles grown strong from years of pushing his wheelchair, and rocked up onto his legs.

He stood in the rushing water, his head pounding and uncertain knees wobbling, but he stood.  Tina leapt up and threw her arms around him, squeaking with delight.

"Not too tight," muffled Timothy.  "You might throw something back out!"

"It's a bleedin' miracle," breathed Dennis.

Timothy shook his head, groaned, and chuckled.  "No, I think it's a trade.  And I think I accept."

Button images by Keith Elder


	44. Chapter 44

****

Chapter Forty-Four

About the time Timothy was sailing through the air courtesy of Fat Cat Airlines (a short flight, to be sure, economy class and booked at the last second), Gadget was using her newfound body mass to do a little breaking and entering.

It was an unlikely door, but Turner claimed it was the start of a tour ("You won't like it," he gnashed his teeth, "no one goes inside for happy reasons.").  Set into a deep but narrow recess, it had an institutional look, down to a battered nameplate rubbed nearly smooth of letters.  A "Dr." and an "ul" had survived the passage of countless paws.  This sparse info bounced around inside Gadget's head and came back only with warning signals.

The nameplate had plenty of company in the form of graffiti scrawled across the door.   This had the look of mathematical or chemical formulae, but Gadget took all of two seconds to realize they were mostly gibberish.

Devin sat back and fidgeted, as best as he could with one arm in a sling.  For safety, lest he have more need for the dwindling supply of Demerol, they'd slung his arm close to his chest, so he looked as though he was always about to make a solemn oath.  "Good thing this sling's made out of your miracle fabric, Gadge.  Hey, if someone tries to shoot me in the face with one of those needle guns, all I have to do is cover my face like—" Devin shifted his arm about an inch, and regretted it. "Oooh—never mind."

"Sorta busy here," Gadget growled over her shoulder.  "Can't believe it—here I am, almost plural—I had to be the only one small enough to get an angle on this frigging thing with a crowbar…"

"With my size, I've always had a bit of trouble fitting in," grinned Turner, but a dark look of remembrance passed over him, and he bit his tongue again.  It did not survive unscathed.

"You'll sever that tongue if you don't watch out," observed Devin.  "You really ought to get some caps put on those fangs of yours.  I know a fella."

"I may have need of these again soon." He tested the point of one incisor with a paw.  "If we get through these next few days, I'll take you up on the offer."

"You're a regular ray of sunshine, Turner," Gadget grunted.  The door wrenched askew off its hinges as Gadget touched down and set the crowbar aside.  The door looked astonished for a moment, made a half-hearted pirouette, and fell into the dark beyond with a hollow slap.

"A ray of sunshine could slip right in through that door," Turner corrected her.  "For me it's always been a squeeze."

So much of a squeeze, indeed, that the crowbar proved useful in mashing Turner's bulk through the empty doorframe, Devin adding a little leverage with his good arm this time.  Scraped but intact, Turner straightened up inside the room and beckoned them inside.

"Won't the others be sort of upset when they find we've broken in?" Gadget wrinkled her nose uncertainly.

"I'm burning a lot of bridges," shrugged Turner.  "This is the last time I'm setting paw in the place."  He shivered a bit.  "I never used to come in this way," he grunted in the half-dark, claws skittering along the walls, questing.  "They usually lowered me through the roof."

"Sounds rather theatrical," said Devin, edging just inside the doorway but staying as close to the light as he could.

"Ceremonial would be more like it," Turner grimaced.

"We were just up above this room—didn't see any heavy machinery, or fifty normal-sized rats with a rope," chuckled Gadget.

"Both are being put to other uses," Turner grumbled, "none of them good."  He found a lever and threw it—the light that came soon after was decidedly non-electric.

"That's clever," nodded Devin, as soon as his eyes had adjusted.  "A little Goth, but clever."  The light flickered and leapt, but cast a fairly even glow, and a decent amount of heat.  The room was ringed with gas-lights in glass globes, and half a dozen Bunsen burners flanked a staircase leading to a desk.  An owlish—but human—scientist peered down from a framed photo above.

"That word you used, 'ceremonial'--" Gadget frowned, approaching the desk cautiously.  Rooms like this were often boobytrapped, or at least rigged with alarms.  "This is a… a shrine, isn't it?"

Turner nodded. "You catch on quick.  Extra communion wafer for the first one who tells me what it's a shrine to."

Devin glanced around the room.  All along the walls were Bunsen burners, stainless steel sinks, chemistry sets perched in dusty cabinets—everything a little thrown-together and chipped, but recognizable—"A shrine to… science?"

Turner snapped his pawpads wistfully.  "So close.  Any other takers?

"A scientist," Gadget clarified.  "One in particular."

"Our judges say you need to be more specific," Turner deadpanned.

"Like on the door," she groaned in recognition.  "That's who 'Dr. Ul' was.  The nameplate used to read 'Dr. Schultz.'"  She turned her attention back to the desk again.  It was perfectly rat-sized, though she couldn't imagine a rat sitting there and playing with the suspended silver balls of the desk toy, or filing a report in the in-box.

"Dr. Schultz?" Devin repeated in disbelief.  "Considering your history—I mean, the history of the NIMH rats—I can't believe any of them would set Dr. Schultz up as some kind of…"

"God?" Turner shook his head.  "Well, it happened.  Dr. Schultz is a vengeful god, and The Commander finds him very useful.  Schultz is always looking to hunt down and destroy his imperfect creations.  A god that demands sacrifice."

"But some of his creations ended up working, as perfectly as he could have ever hoped--" Gadget pointed out.  "It's only Group B that are genetically unstable and falling apart."

"Right you are.  Unfortunately, that includes yours truly.  I've held together so far, but look at Arthur with his bad heart—and the rest of Group B has an assortment of afflictions from cleft palate to clubfoot to diabetes.  Is it all that surprising that The Commander settled on a scientist when he needed a god?"

Turner stalked over to one wall of the space and turned up a gas-light.   A map was now visible, perforated in many spots with pushpins and cut by red marker lines.  "This is the sacrifice The Commander wants to give Dr. Schultz."

_I have often walked down this street before,_ a snatch of music flitted through Devin's head, as he raised his good paw and traced the all-too-familiar paths—from the Falls to the Institute, from the Justins' official residence to the Great Hall—though the red lines did not follow any of them closely.  _Where do they lead?_

"Thorn Valley?  Just—wrapped up in a big red bow, merry Christmas?" Devin whistled.

"What does he expect in return?" asked Gadget.  "'Thanks for betraying a complete working community of intelligent rats, I guess I'll stop hunting the rest of you'?"

"The Commander's not that crazy.  Dr. Schultz wouldn't rest easy knowing any of us were still out there.  But anything is better than nothing, and taking out Thorn Valley in one move—I don't think Schultz would pass up the chance."

Devin groaned.  "Spit it out, Turner.  What does the Commander get?  What's the trade?"

"Life," shrugged Turner.  "A second chance at one, at least.  The Commander wants the refined, successful serum that Schultz gave to Group A."

Gadget thought about that one for a little while.  "Jeepers," she decided.

"Jeepers indeed," Turner nodded.

Devin slapped his forehead.  "Of course.  It could stop the genetic damage.  Maybe even reverse it, but that might be asking too much."

"If it did even half as well for Group B, it would make this Commander look like a miracle worker," frowned Gadget.

"I can tell you this much about my father," said Turner.  "Right now, he only rules by fear.  Give him a weapon like that—yes, a weapon—a blessing he can bestow on the faithful and withhold from those he finds 'unworthy'-- and he'll set himself up in place of Schultz in their twisted little minds.  He could make himself a god in their eyes."

"But there are easier ways to get the serum, I'll bet—" protested Devin.  "You don't just walk right up to the Devil himself and ask for fire!  Why not try breaking back in and stealing the serum, try to replicate it—"

"I'll do you one better," chuckled Turner.  "How about dropping a spy in?  Justin and Elizabeth already gave that a shot.  I bet they didn't mention it; it was a near disaster  Almost killed Martin Brisby, though he did volunteer.  Surprising, what with the bad blood between him and the Justins."

Gadget's ears perked up.  "Did he get a sample of the serum?"

"I should say so.  Almost constantly.   His 'deep cover' turned a little too deep-- 24-7 on an I.V. drip for most of his stay.  A normal, single injection of the serum causes searing pain for days--I hear he tore out the side of his cage to escape."

"Eeesh.  So—Thorn Valley has the serum?  Refined it from whatever was left over in Martin's blood—" Gadget scratched her head.  "Why go to Dr. Schultz for it, then?"

"Quality and quantity," sighed Turner.  "Right now, the Thorn Valley Institute has a small amount of a secondhand concoction that appears to work in test tubes.  And they don't dare test it on a live subject."

"The Commander needs the stuff in bulk," nodded Devin.  "And pure."

"You could have told us this before, Turner," Gadget narrowed her eyes.  "Elizabeth and Justin need to know what Group B is up to.  Why drag us all this way, and keep us in the dark this long?"

Turner gulped.  "Try to understand," he started slowly.  "I was afraid you might rush off and do something—rash—when I told you the rest."

"There's more?" groaned Devin.

"Yes, and a lot tougher on Gadget," Turner bit his lip again.

"I don't like the sound of that at all," Gadget muttered, clenching her paws.

"Promised you a tour," Turner grimaced, and threw another set of switches.  Lights sprang to life on a ring of poles at the center of the room, but these were shuttered on their sides, to throw light upon a curious contraption.  Ropes lay coiled at the bases of the poles, some unattached but others run through pulleys and winches.  The centerpiece of the arrangement looked rather like an exercise wheel with an extra gear in back, the floor beneath it tapering down toward a drain.

Devin reached out and turned the wheel a bit.  It creaked like a rusty gate.  "They keep the wheels at my gym better oiled than this one," he chuckled nervously.

"What do you think this does, Gadget?" Turner asked softly.

Gadget picked up one of the ropes and shook it out.  "Hm," she squinted, drew a line in the air, and tossed it through the center of the wheel.  "That much is obvious.  The ropes stretch from post to post, though everything's unstrung right now."

"Yes, but why the ropes in the first place?"

Gadget wrinkled her nose in disgust.  "To hold someone.  Keep them on the wheel.  The ropes cross through, and they meet at a center point."  Turner and Devin looked at her, waiting.  "Someone stands between the ropes.  Someone stands and walks--"

Gadget took a large step backward, wiping her paws on her jumpsuit. "Dear God.  It tightens as they walk.  Until--"

"It kills," stated Turner, one of his fangs bared by a sneer.  "You have to screw up pretty badly to earn a trip on the wheel, but I've seen it done."

"That's monstrous," Devin pronounced.  "You'd pass out before drawing the ropes tight enough for crushing—"

"If you're lucky, they wrap them around your—" Turner started.

"STOP!" begged Gadget, pounding a paw against Turner's massive arm, tears welling.  "I don't want to hear any more about it!"

"All right, all right," Turner relented.  "That's all I wanted you to see."

"Why would you want me to see that?!"

"Because I knew you would understand it," sighed Turner, moving her paw away gently.  "Understand it and hate it.  Think of it as a mechanical thing.  Cold and cruel.  Of terrible intent.  But also, might you find it just a little bit clever?"

Gadget thought about it, for the entire half-second it took.  "What a horrible thing to say!  There's nothing clever about a death machine.  Nothing admirable.  Why, even those damnable needle guns—there are times a good person could use them!  Hate them, but use them!  This wheel, this thing for dismembering live bodies—no good person would ever use it!"

Turner winced.  "What about the person who made a killing machine?  What kind of person do you think he'd have to be?"

"Devin had it right when he said monstrous," Gadget glowered.  "It would take a monster—"

"—or," Turner cut her off, "a mechanical genius forced to work for one.  Caged.  Tortured.  Maybe even driven mad, I'm not sure."

"But you've met the one who made it," Devin broke in.

"Yes," shuddered Turner.  "Right after he ripped one of his captors to shreds.  Not someone you'd want to turn your back on.  He's not allowed sharp tools anymore, unless he's chained to his desk."  Turner gulped, tried to look Gadget in the eye, but couldn't.  "I only ever told you one lie, Gadget."

"When?"

"I told you I didn't know who G.G.H. was.  Those initials, scratched into your prototype needle gun, the big black heavy one.  It's the same inventor who built this killing wheel."

"Then tell me, dammit!"

"Quit stringing her along, Turner!" Devin glowered at him.  "Who was it?"

Turner, not for the last time that day, bit his tongue but plowed on.  "Your father, Gadget.  Geegaw Hackwrench."

The name hit her like a slap.  One part of her wanted to take a step toward Turner and kick him; another wanted to run away.  Neither worked, and her legs buckled where she stood.  Devin caught her halfway down and she did not land very hard.

"I'm sorry, Gadget.  I'm sorry I lied, but I have to know—" Turner winced. "He's been in a very dark place for a very long time—do you think he can come back all the way?"

_Come back?_ she repeated to herself soundlessly, momentarily blind to all things of this present world.  _"Come back, Daddy, come back—" how long did I sit there on the edge of that cliff, in the dark, praying he would?_

Her eyes swam back into focus.  "Come back?" she wrinkled her nose at Turner.  "If he couldn't fight his way out, he'd build his way out!  If he's still half the mouse he was—"

Turner stuck out a scarred but massive paw to her.  He pulled her to her feet with the widest grin she and Devin had seen him flash—they both would have both shielded their necks instinctively, but neither wanted to seem impolite.  "That's exactly what I hoped you'd say," Turner nodded.  "Let's go get him."

Button images by Keith Elder


	45. Chapter 45

****

Chapter Forty-Five

Turner watched Gadget carefully as she surveyed the mess.  Her anger had faded to disappointment by now, and Turner was sure she'd blame him.

Turner had kidnapped Gadget and Devin (though it wasn't as though he had any choice at the time).   He had dragged them off unconscious through a labyrinth of tunnels to his own hideout, and now that they were ambulatory again, one had a mangled wrist and the other was so pregnant that she rolled around like a drunken sailor until she'd built up speed.  And now this.

"Soooo…." ventured Devin.  That pretty much said it, but he went blithely on with the obvious.  "They're not at home, then."

The Commander and the twenty-or-so guard rats he usually surrounded himself with were most definitely out to lunch.  Not that they would have needed to go far for a bite to eat—there were piles of fruit and well-gnawed chunks of hardening cheese on the rough makeshift tables, bread from fresh to rock-hard stale.  No gourmands, these—a bite of this, a bite of that, and leave the rest on the floor.

There was the occasional twisted fork or bent spoon mixed in with the refuse.  They'd taken the knives when they left.

"Turner?" breathed Gadget.

_Here it comes, _Turner winced.  "Gadget, I'm so sorry, I was sure your father would be here—"

Gadget furrowed her brow.  "You couldn't have known.  It's not your fault."

Turner visibly relaxed.  "Thank you, Gadget.  All the same, I feel stupid.  The Commander really has left me out of the loop, if he can pull out an evacuation like this when I let him out of my sight for a few hours."

"Maybe they just decided it was time for a move," Devin offered hopefully.  "Aren't there other places they use sometimes?"

"Nowhere like this," Turner shook his head.  "You saw how difficult it would be to get in here if the place were defended properly."

Gadget nodded distractedly.  _Narrow entryway, multiple locked doors and barred gates, plenty of high ledges with recesses where defenders could throw rocks down—no shortage of those in the caves…_ "But they left it all unlocked.  Not a soul left behind, not even a boobytrap for unwelcome guests."  _Oh, Daddy, where have they taken you now?_

"It gives me the willies," Devin grumbled. "It's like The Pirates of the Caribbean without the pirates."

Turner frowned.  "You mean it's like the Caribbean?  You've obviously never been there.  More sunshine, less rock."

"Ha, ha.  Very funny.  You know what I mean.  Why would they give the place up?"

"Well," Turner scratched his head, "That I can only guess at.  This was the Commander's inner sanctum.  He didn't even trust me to be here for more than a few minutes at a time."  Turner flexed his paw, feeling an old, deep pain in it.  "And he usually only brought me here for punishment."

"But this is where you talked to my father."  Gadget started walking the perimeter of the room, tapping on walls.  "How did you manage that?"

Turner chuckled.  "The Commander had me play messenger boy.  I told Geegaw when his services were required on a new project.  Most times the Commander wouldn't risk a trip down to the pit by himself, after Geegaw attacked one of the guards."

"They kept my father down in a pit?" Gadget stopped tapping.  "I figured they'd keep him somewhere isolated, but that must have been awful!"

Turner nodded.  "A workbench, a flea-ridden old mattress, and shackles.  Not the epitome of interior design."

"Show me," growled Gadget, sparks flashing in her eyes.  "Show me where they kept him."

"You can't keep this up!" Devin hollered down the hole at her.  "I'm the guy!  I'm supposed to go down and check for spiders first!"

"Pshaw," Gadget shot back from below.  "Not with one mangled paw and still fuzzy from that Demerol, you're not!"

"I've been pshawed," a crestfallen Devin looked to Turner, who nodded curtly.

"Probably the first case in decades," Turner confirmed.  "You could write it up for a medical journal, I bet." Turner was holding open the cover to the pit—it was springloaded, for some reason only known to the Commander, and in lesser paws would have slammed back shut with great force.

Down deep in the pit, on a packing crate by the ladder, a lantern flickered and jumped.  Or jumpered and flicked.  Either way, it was as much light as had ever shone down in that sad, cramped place.  The only thing comforting about it for Gadget was that it smelled undeniably like Geegaw.

Sweat, singed fur, hot metal and five kinds of oil—that combination of smells was absolutely punched into the walls down here, and Gadget knew no better description of "father".  It was as though he'd just left the room.

The tools were crude but serviceable, a child's playset in comparison to Geegaw's workshop back at the hangar where the other Rescue Rangers had found Gadget.  _Back in the real world_, as Gadget was beginning to think of it.  Gadget picked up a well-worn hammer with a little difficulty—not too heavy, just too thick in the handle, like most of the collection.  A few items still had a little shine on them, though, and a familiar touch…

"I'll be damned," her voice rose up out of the pit.  "These are some of the tools I lost in the fire at Timmy and Tina's!"

Turner sat hunched like a boulder about to roll into the pit after Gadget.  Holding the cover open looked like a real job, even for him, as sweat was beginning to build on his brow.  _It's a real mind-bender watching something his size when it's perching_, Devin shook his head.  "I guess a few of your crew decided to do a little looting and pillaging along the way, eh, Turner?"

"I'm surprised… any of them had the brains," Turner grunted.  "If they picked up anything useful, it was like a magpie picking up tinfoil."

"I can't believe my father could work under these conditions!" Gadget's voice came up again.  "The light down here is terrible!"

"Sorry to spring it on you, Gadget," Turner called down to her.  "He mostly worked by touch.  They kept the cover chained down day and night."

"What?" came Gadget's distracted reply.  "Sorry, working something loose down here."

"I SAID," Turner overcompensated, "BY TOUCH!  I DON'T KNOW IF IT WAS JUST THE DARK, BUT I THINK HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN BLIND!"

"Shh!"  Gadget cautioned him, popping up out of the dark, gripping the ladder tightly with one paw and a folded scrap of paper in the other.  "You'll wake up those bats we saw on the way in."

"They mostly mind their own business," Turner reassured her.

"Gadget's got a point," Devin chuckled nervously.  "Out of common courtesy, I never like to wake up anyone who works the night shift."

"You shifted a few things in the night I didn't even remember I had, Devin," chuckled Gadget.  "Oops.  Too much info.  But Turner, you're sure my father wasn't seeing well?" 

Turner flashed his razor-point dental oddities.  "He always called me 'handsome young fellow' when I'd come to visit," he offered.

"Definitely blind," nodded Devin.

"Funny thing he held onto this so long, then, it's an old photo.  Stuck under the workbench-- guess it was one piece of home.  There's nothing else personal of his down in the pit."

"Come out of there and we'll have a look," growled Turner.  "Right now I've held this damn cover open long enough."  Devin extended his good paw and pulled Gadget up over the lip of the pit.  They stood free as Turner let go and hopped back—the cover slammed shut with force that could have crushed bone.

"Stupid thing," Turner rubbed his biceps.  "It had a lock on it, why the springs?  Ah, forget it.  Show us your picture, Gadget."

Gadget unfolded the tattered photograph on the now-closed pit cover, as they all leaned over it.

"That's you, isn't it?  No mistake--"  Devin ran a pawpad over the faded image of a young mouse-girl in overalls, clinging to the knees of a scruffily handsome, taller mouse.  "Must be Geegaw…"  The Gadget-from-long-ago was pointing up (way, way up for her) at the wing of a two-seater airplane.  Another mouse in a flight jacket was stepping from the wing into a seat—already working on a respectable cheese gut, it was Monterey Jack himself.

"Monty popped a rivet on the wing getting in.  They nearly crashed--Dad listened to me better from then on.  I did try to warn them."  Gadget cocked her head to one side and 'hmm'ed.  "That's strange," she brushed at the picture.

"What's strange?" rumbled Turner.

"The rivets.  Somehow he's punched little dots on the picture, it makes it look like the rivets on the plane are standing out—"

"They don't match the real rivets," Devin scratched his head.  "But I – hey, wait—"  He put his pawpad down to the photo again and slowly dragged it across. "Braille!  It says _THORN VALLEY DANGER.  TELL THEM LOOK UP.   IF CAN READ THIS, ABOUT FIFTEEN SECONDS…"_ Devin trailed off.  "Fifteen seconds until what?"

Somewhere in the distance, but still too close, something began to groan and creak.  Three sets of ears perked up, three heads swiveled around at the sound.  A grinding, cracking, approaching kind of sound.

"Run," Gadget said.  "RUN!!"

Button images by Keith Elder


	46. Chapter 46

****

Chapter Forty-Six

Through the eyepiece of a telescope, a rat with would-be-sharp sight (and little else to recommend him) watched a motley collection of ships cross Thorn Lake. 

"I still think we shoulda blown their nice new volunteers up on the water.  Just like skimming cream off the top."  He curled a lip and twisted at a metal ring, but the image remained a hopeless blur.  A short distance away, Geegaw cocked his head to the side, listening to the squeaky 'scope and chuckling.

"What have you got to laugh about?" the Commander grumbled suspiciously, keeping well back in the shadows of their hidey-hole high up a cliff-face.  A few others, farther back down the tunnel, set down the spherical bulk of Geegaw's contraption.  They handled it very gingerly—it was loaded this time, and if it went off in such close quarters there wouldn't be anything identifiable left.

"Can't see a thing, sir," the other rat squinted.  "A lot of activity, but I can't get any detail out of this."

"Try sticking it up your—urk—" choked Geegaw, as the Commander closed a paw around his throat and squeezed.  He tried to kick, but his tormentor pinned his bad leg with one knee and pressed harder.  Something in the leg went ping and would probably be of no further use.

"Another little mechanical mishap?  And who do we thank for this?" hissed the Commander.  _Controlling pressure, not crushing pressure.__  Not yet.  Still need this one for a few hours._  "Has our blind guest touched that telescope?" he snapped over his shoulder.

"N-not while I've been watching, sir."

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then.  ALWAYS be watching this one.  Remember, what is Stevens watching these days?"

It was an old rhetorical question by now, but the Commander was still known to get angry if he didn't get the answer.

"He isn't watching nothing 'cept his l-lunch through a s-straw," stammered the lookout, instinctively covering his neck. "Poor old Stevens…"

"Remember that, any time you start to think this old fellow looks harmless," the Commander released his grip on Geegaw, who sputtered and wheezed.

In a brief and limited way, Geegaw had time to be relieved, for against the perpetual darkness of his usual vision, a few stars zigzagged crazily.

_I'm not the only one in the dark.  I've got an end for you._

An end.  The end.  It was almost all he could think of, and it drove the other thought—yes, the other thought—out of his head.  A good spot of revenge clears the mind effectively, but vengeance, ah, vengeance—

Turner had come lumbering down the ladder one day not so long ago with a miniature tape recorder, some notes in clumsy Braille and a couple of sketches to describe.  With one of the Commander's black-and-silver-garbed confidantes keeping close watch on them both from above, Turner gulped as surreptitiously as possible and relayed the Commander's latest request.

"I might as well buy a ticket straight to Hell.  You're kidding," Geegaw assumed, quite reasonably.

"No, I am not," Turner assured him, just as reliably.

Geegaw stood up and began limping around in his leg-irons, wearing a groove even deeper into the floor.  When he could think straight to speak again, his reply was unprintable, not to mention almost physically impossible and illegal in three states.

Turner sneered for the benefit of the guard.  "The Commander thought you might say that," he growled.  "He also thought this might loosen you up." _Oh god oh god oh god,_ his mind reeled.  _He'll never trust me again—_

Turner's razor-sharp index claw skittered around but found the Play button on the mini recorder.

"_Help!__ Please—"_ Gadget's tinny, exhausted voice trickled out of the speaker.

"Gadget?" Geegaw whispered in horror.

The recording trailed off into a scream, and less pleasant sounds.  Sounds of flesh being struck, cloth ripping, glass breaking, mirthless laughter.  The audio was a little bit from here, a little bit from there, a few bruised and hopeless words from Gadget the only narration.  The effect was choppy but told enough of a story.  She was in mortal hurt.

Unable to take it any longer, Geegaw snagged a wrench from his workbench and made a two-pawed lunge directly for Turner, screaming in rage.  Turner caught him with a foot and jammed him back against a corner, scooping up the wrench as it fell from his slack paws.

"They had their whole treehouse wired for sound.  Intercom system.  We got a lot of good stuff, even some video footage, not that it would do any good in your case," Turner chuckled, pegging the wrench into a different corner.  The guard laughed along above—this was the best entertainment he'd had since the original recording session.  

The tape droned on, propped against the wall of the pit.  A voice very recognizable as Turner's boomed out of it, over Gadget's wordless moans. _"That's better!  You're no fun if you don't fight!_"

"Oh, don't worry, she's alive," the clear and present Turner rumbled, almost a purr.  "And you'll make the … _item_ the Commander asked for, if you want to keep her that way."

"You monster…" Geegaw struggled under Turner's massive foot.  "What have you done to her?"

Turner bashed at the Stop button of the recorder—it went mercifully silent.  He bent closer over Geegaw. "_Make of it what you will !" _ he hissed, desperately praying that his his meaning was understood. "_Please!" _ he whispered.

"Wha—" Geegaw's whiskers oscillated in confusion.

"The recording, you half-assed excuse for a blind tinker!  Make of it what you will!"

"Okay, enough," grunted the guard from above.  "You've delivered your message, now come out of there.  No idle chitchat with the prisoner."

"All done here," Turner glared up at the other rat.  "He'll dig into his new project now, if he knows what's good for him, and his tasty little daughter."

Geegaw flung a useless pawful of dirt after Turner as he hustled up the ladder, leaving the recorder, and a pack of evil plans neatly wrapped up on the workbench.  Geegaw heard the lid slam shut.

After a couple of quiet minutes, just to be safe, Geegaw had the guts of the recorder laid out carefully on his bench, twists of wire running into places the recorder's designer had never intended.

Once or twice, running the tape back and forth, Geegaw was sure he would throw up from fear for Gadget.  One of those times, he was right, but avoided puking on the electronics.

A particular snippet near the end of the tape had caught his interest, and he wound it back and forth between the tape-heads.

"You're no fun if you don't fight!" Rumble, rumble.  Gadget shrieking again.  Geegaw couldn't help wincing.

He untwisted a wire and bent closer over the exposed speaker.

"You're no fun if you don't fight!" boomed the recorded Turner. After Gadget's scream, the rumble resolved itself into a few blessed words.

"Live to fight," Turner was saying, quiet and desperate, so very like Turner's hurried words to Geegaw himself.  Geegaw tapped a makeshift relay and looped the audio like a first-class DJ.  "Live to fight, live to fight—"

_"Make of it what you will,"_ Geegaw thought.  _So, the Growler's more than a mere messenger boy.  "Live to fight," indeed._

_Sounds like an excellent idea,_ Geegaw grinned grimly in the dark, feeling dangerous for the first time in a long while.  _Some of these extra parts are sharp._

Geegaw wheezed back to consciousness like a leaky accordion, back in the tunnel with the Commander and his retinue.

"Troublesome old bastard takes longer to wake up every time I put him out," sneered the Commander, with just the slightest bit of relief that Geegaw had not yet shuffled off this mortal fur.  The other rats laughed nervously.

"_…may be old…" _spat Geegaw, "_but at least I'm getting old slow…"_

"Shut up!" snarled the Commander.  "Dr. Schultz has that taken care of.  I'll be around long after you've outlived your usefulness."

"_...so damn...sure of yourself..." _ Geegaw shook his head, and decided to save his breath.

The rat with the telescope gave up and bashed it against a rock.  It tinkled out of the hidey-hole, down the face of the cliff, and sparkled in a little rivulet of broken glass.

"Get back from there!  Someone might see you!" barked the Commander.  "Bah--we don't need a closer look at those bumbling fools from Rescue Aid-- we know right where they're headed."

The same could not be said of all the strange collection bunched up at the edge of the lake, and dipping an occasional wary paw in it.

Martin was looking doubtfully at the patchwork fleet of rafts and canoes the Rescue Aid delegates were jostling into.

"You could always use one for each foot," offered Timothy. 

"I'm going to break my promise—" Martin grumbled.  "I swore I'd never come back."

"Don't know about promises," chuckled Timothy.  "But I think you'll break a boat…"

It had nearly broken Tina's heart to see Timothy hobbling and lurching around—up and walking, fine, but he'd need months of physical therapy to stop falling over—so she made sure the Thorn Valley Institute had a wheelchair waiting for him just when he got off the albatross flight.  He'd taken one look at the thing and tried to kick it off its wheels.  He took a second look and sat down.

A weary Teresa was losing her grasp on Sophie, who was talking nonstop in her excitement and claiming she was perfectly capable of swimming across the lake by herself, thank you very much…

There at the shore, they all sat more or less (Sophie) quietly, waiting as it were for their ship to come in.   Bernard and Bianca's already had; a floating ambulance had whisked the still-unstable pair directly off to the Institute.  The new arrivals had come to a bottleneck of sorts, some warily scanning the skies, others straining to get a view of the dropoff across the lake and nearer the Falls, where Devin and Gadget had an easier arrival and less luggage.

"I know I'll see you guys on the other side of the lake," whispered Timothy, frowning for a second as Tina made a 'raise the volume' gesture with one paw.  _Sorry, Tina, this 'deaf' thing is harder than it sounds, _he signed.  "It's just—I know things will be different once we're back, really back."

"I know what you mean, I think," rumbled Martin. "Thorn Valley's got its hooks in us again, just when we thought we might get out and see the world for a while."

"We brought some—Sophie, leave the ducks alone!—we brought some of the world back with us," Teresa pointed out, as Sophie rustled by, flapping a couple of ill-gotten feathers.

"We did sort of go for the deluxe assortment, didn't we?" smirked Timothy.  At the nearby pier, a pint-sized fennec fox in a fez wobbled into his boat, remarking to his rat gondolier that yes, his home country was indeed much drier than this, and no, he did not _quiero_ any Taco Bell.

"Mixed nuts," Teresa nodded.

"I'm afraid all we've done is pack them into a tighter can," Martin sighed.  "Barring some spectacular stroke of luck, it still comes down to how badly Group B wants to finish the job."

"Don't write off the Guard," Tina reminded him.  "Cynthia's been busy while we've been away, I hear—"

"—probably pulling a bunch of paper-pushers off desk duty and marching them into shape," Martin said doubtfully.

"In that case they could draft Dennis," Teresa offered.

"Nah.  Betcha the only thing he's ever killed is a pleasant mood.  Still," Timothy shrugged, "maybe he can drag the Guard's communications kicking and screaming into the modern era."

Martin shaded his massive brow with one paw.  "Well, our Navy must have been doing some upgrading, at least.  They've pressed Mom into service as a paddlewheeler engine."

Indeed, flailing toward the shore as Justin and three other oar-rats in Guard uniform tried to correct their zigzag path, Mrs. Elizabeth Brisby-Justin was pulling with all her might at a paddle as tall as herself.  She did not wait until the boat was secured, but flung herself into the still-frothy water and clawed her way onto the shore, making a beeline for Timothy.

"Timmy, sweetheart, oh, thank God," she grabbed his arms and dripped on him.

"Good to see you too, Mom, even with the algae--" Timothy chuckled.  "C'mon, help me stand up.  I don't want you giving me one of those reachy-graspy wheelchair hugs."

Elizabeth dragged him bodily out of the chair and squished her soggy red cape against him.  "Timmy, just look at you!"

"Look at me? Parts of me work a little different, but I look pretty much th–"

"—forgive me, Timmy, please forgive me," Elizabeth pulled back and held her son at arm's length, as he limped in place a little.

"What for?"

"I sent you into that place, you almost didn't come out!" she sobbed, wrapping him up again.

"He did fine," came Justin's voice, up from the shoreline.

"Granpa Justin, Granpa Justin!" Sophie beamed, and rushed to him, latching onto his leg like a limpet mine.

Justin pried Sophie off good-naturedly.  "I'm surprised you remember me!"  He pulled a rope tight against a tie-line post as the other rowers scrambled off to help load more boats.  "You could hardly talk the last time I saw you—"

"You made me an eyepatch and I could only walk in circles," she reminded him.

"That was fun, wasn't it?" Justin chuckled, and looked back up at Timothy.  "Tim--I heard what you tried to do--what you almost did.  You've got a lot of your father in you--brains, guts, a complete disregard for yourself when others are in danger--" 

He looked up past Timothy and took them all in as a group, short and tall, most of them a little damaged in one way or another, and priceless.  "Yep," he nodded.  "Brisbys, the whole pack of you.  And it's good to have you back."

He put a paw on Martin's shoulder and looked him in the eye. _Don't even have to look down to do it, either._  "No matter what's passed between us.  It's good to have all of the Brisbys back."

"I'm not a Brisby, not yet," Tina reminded him.  "And you'd need Cynthia here for the group portrait."

"You forget I'm not a photographer," Justin chuckled.  "With a tapestry, I could put Bigfoot in the picture and make it look good."

"We see Bigfoot more often than we see Cynthia anyway," shrugged Timothy.  "Even if there is a little bit of resemblance…"

"Be kind, Timothy," Elizabeth chided him. "She's not here to defend herself, but she's out defending all of you."

"She wanted to be here to meet you, but security preparations are taking longer than we thought.  She swears she'll be at the signing ceremony tonight," Justin put a paw over his heart.

"Ceremony?" groaned Timothy.  "Can't they wait until everybody's settled in?

"Consider it an official welcome for Rescue Aid," sighed Elizabeth.  "Besides, we can't have all the delegates stumbling around Thorn Valley without watching our little orientation film."

Martin winced, Teresa putting a questioning paw on his shoulder.  "Oh, God, mother… not '_Don't Wander Off And__ Get Eaten_, The Musical'?"

"Fifteen minutes of practical advice never hurt anyone," Elizabeth narrowed her eyes at her gargantuan son.

"You're not the one who gets eaten on film," Martin grumbled.

"Water under the bridge," Justin got in edgewise.  "And we'd better get water back under all these boats, or we'll be late to the ceremony ourselves."

Almost before they realized it, the band of Brisbys were broken up into manageable chunks and shooed onto separate boats.  Timothy, for one, was afraid his boat itself was going to break up.

"Are you sure this is technically a boat?" Timothy cautiously rapped the side of the oversized but rather crowded canoe.  "I see popsicle sticks."

Roger, the Thorn Valley shipmaster, looked back over his shoulder and shrugged.  "We only use them for patching up holes, Mister Timothy." 

Timothy blinked hard, trying to read Roger's lips.  Tina tapped Timothy on the shoulder and made an "eyes here" gesture, then translated Roger's answer.  "Great," Timothy nodded along with her signs, and signed back at her.  _Oh.  This boat's had holes in it before.  We're only over the deepest part of the lake, that's really useful information._

"I'm sure it's a fine boat," Tina said for Roger's benefit.  "And passengers can read the little jokes printed on it, to pass the time."

_Ship of fools, ship of jokes,_ signed Timothy, not comforted at all.  He shifted uneasily on one of the popsicle-patched sections and did a double-take.

"Hey, Roger!  I'm surprised you didn't send this one in!  You won a car!"

Roger laughed and shook a little lakewater back at Timothy from his oar.  "Funny, innit?  Didn't you ever wonder what always happens to the winning ones?"

Tina's smile dropped a bit as she looked out across the lake to the distant cliffs above one of the rivers that ran into it.  A light glinted twice, and did not show again.

"There's a light up in the far cliffs," she said and signed.

"What, out there?" Roger squinted, gesturing with the oar.  "Probably just a shiny rock in the sun.  We don't go out there much.  Best mention it to Arthur and Cynthia anyways, they've got the whole Guard checking and closing tunnels leading off from the caves.  Opening a few, too," he added, scratching his head quizzically.

"They run that far out?" Timothy whistled.  It felt funny to whistle and not hear it.  "Never heard of tunnels running out under the lake.  It'd be a mess if the lake drained into them."

"I'd be out of a job," nodded Roger, grinning happily.  "Landlocked!  Marooned!"  His grin fell like an interrupted soufflé as he thought it over.  "Nah.  I used up all my luck a long time ago.  I'll die with a paddle in my paws and sink straight to Davy Jones' locker."

"Screw you, Cap'n," smirked Timothy.  "You'll retire to Phoenix.  You've got the brochure."

Tina half-smiled, glad to see Timothy was back in slightly grating form, but couldn't help thinking about the light in the cliffs.  A signal?  Light on sharp metal?  It would bug her until someone went to check, probably wake her up at three the next morning—maybe she'd have to go and check for herself to get any peace of mind.  But not alone, no, never alone.

_Don't wander off and get eaten. Too true._

Button images by Keith Elder


	47. Chapter 47

****

Chapter Forty-Seven

"Your father…builds a mean sauna, Gadget", dripped Devin.  His whiskers hung like dark spaghetti, all the exposed fur on his body clumping up in little sweat-spikes.

"Don't you go--gasp-- blaming him for this—" Gadget started.  "It's not like he—had a choice—"

"Go, go, be quiet, no time, no air—" urged Turner from further up the tunnel.  It was filling with steam from the top down, which meant Turner was getting the worst of it first. 

The "miracle fabric" of their new clothes had only demonstrated one unfortunate reaction to the steam, turning as slick and clinging as oil.  They had abandoned nearly all their supplies in their flight, Gadget only snagging her needle-pistol (she was considering chucking it away to stop it slapping against her back as they ran). Overhead, the string of clumsily-hung lights began to pop and sizzle out in the moisture.

Gadget, though the shortest of the three, still felt like she was trying to inhale a boiling sponge.  Somewhere far below, off in the dark to their left, was the maddening sound of rushing water, like the cruel tease of cool relief.

It would have been some small comfort to the melting trio, had they known that the steam surrounding them was jetting out of the very same geyser system that Arthur had tapped at Thorn Valley.  Of course, Arthur had nearly cooked himself, so maybe it wouldn't have been too comforting…

"If we don't get out—of this soon—we're dead," Turner frothed. 

That didn't help much either.

"All… the same," choked Devin, "Glad Geegaw didn't rig the floor to collapse—"

"Don't give him any ideas!" snapped Gadget.

"From here?" Devin boggled.

They turned a bend in the tunnel and Turner held up a warning paw as they approached a nondescript pile of rock against one wall.  "Oh, God, they've blocked it—"

"Whatzit—" Devin squeezed out.

"This is it! Get back!" Turner ordered, whipping his diamond-edged sword out of its scabbard.  He rammed it behind one of the larger rocks and threw his weight against it.  Heaving and wheezing, he dug his footpaws in and levered with the sword until the metal began to bend.  Cracks zigzagged up the diamond coating of the blade, with a sound like snapping tree branches.

The stone shifted, lifted, and finally tumbled away from the base of the wall.  It cleared the dropoff running along the path, and splashed down in the unseen river a few seconds later.  Faint light, and a blessed trickle of cool air puffed through the opening as other rocks settled in the opening beyond.  The swirling steam drew back ever so slightly, as if startled, but resumed its killing, creeping assault on the tunnel.

"In there? It's tiny," Devin observed.  "We're gonna have to squeeze Gadget like a grape."

"Get in!" barked Turner, the sword clattering away from his spent paws.  "Quick!"

Devin went down on his knees, felt his way in with his good paw, then squeezed his head and shoulders through the tight entrance.  "Hurry, Gadge!"

Gadget took a half-step back and passed a hand over her face instead.

"N-no," she clenched her fists, wobbling in place.  "No, Monty, I'm not going in there again—"  Turner was stalking toward her, but it was as if her old friend were standing there instead, yelling at her to get into the damn hole already…

"Monty?" Turner cocked his tattered, sweat-soaked head to one side in confusion.  He made a lunge for Gadget, but only managed to fumble the needle-pistol out of her holster as she twisted away.  Turner grimaced and tossed the pistol in the direction of the hole.

"Devin!  Grab her and pull her in!  She's getting lightheaded!"

"I AM NOT! You idiot, you're going to die out here!"  She retreated toward the hole but scooped up the pistol, checking the safety and leaving it aimed at the floor.

"You'll die too if you don't go NOW," Turner boomed.  Breath gone, he wobbled in place, sucking in a lungful of the steam and clutching at his stomach.  Gadget rushed to support him as best as she could, which wasn't much.

"Gadget, please!" cried Devin.  He began to wedge himself out of the hole, but it seemed tougher getting out than in.

"You can't just die, we'll help you dig the hole wider, build some kind of shelter—" Gadget rattled off, the plans flopping together in her head like soggy blueprints.  It was hard to tell whether it was sweat or tears running down her face, but she was tilting toward tears.

"You'll leave me," Turner said, his voice calm with certainty.  "And I'll tell you why."  He bent down yet further, and whispered three words of poison in her ear.

The change in Gadget was instantaneous.  She whipped her arm free of him, and nearly teleported away, wheeling back and bringing up the needle-pistol to eye-height.  If the steam had taken the starch out of her, Turner had just put most of it back.  It was not a pleasant change.

"Liar," she snarled at Turner.  "You filthy liar."  The words cut the steamy air, with all the focus of a long-festering hate that has found its target.

Devin freed himself from the hole, cautiously approaching.  "Gadget—be careful with that thing—"

_She's going to kill me_, Turner gulped, _and I deserve it._ "No lies, Gadget.  Do what you have to."

Gadget's paw tensed on the trigger of the pistol.  Turner hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the end.

Gadget lowered the gun, but not all the way, and shot him in the foot.  He howled with surprise and anguish, bending over instinctively to check the damage, which is when Gadget's shoulder crashed into his side.

The next Turner knew, he was falling through the air, sans floor and sans Gadget.  A second later, he slapped into the unseen stream.  Swept along and scrabbling at the rocky edges, he broke the surface and took a breath of blessed cool air.  The needle, still in his foot, scraped along rocks and worked a bigger hole in his paw.  There were no pawholds, and he was swept away to places unknown.

The vengeful spirit that seemed to possess Gadget had slowly receded, leaving her feeling wrung out like a wet rag, but at least alive.

She and Devin sat in a heap, sprawled out against a wall in the cool, dry hollow beyond the rock fall that had partially blocked the escape route.  They'd stripped down almost to the fur, but only to dry out.

"What did he say to you, Gadget?"

Gadget flinched.  "He, who?"

"You know what I mean, Gadget."

"Don't want to talk about it."  She turned her face against his shoulder and shuddered.  He folded his good arm around her, letting his paw rest on her ginormous belly.  He gritted his teeth, feeling like an insensitive idiot.

_Ask again later--MUCH later,_ Devin kicked himself mentally.  They were quiet for a while.

Their cavern seemed to run out to the edge of a cliff or some other opening, because light was better here, and it looked like a little bit of a climb might show them where their twisting trek through the tunnels had led them.

"Be right back," Devin patted Gadget's arm, disentangling himself and fumbling his good arm into his lab coat.

"Not going anywhere," mumbled Gadget.  "Need a nap."

"What you need," Devin countered, "is a giant bag of ice cubes."

"Jeepers, that sounds good," Gadget stretched.  "Ice is nice.  Steam is mean.  That doesn't rhyme but I'm going to sleep."

"You do that," Devin soothed, and levered himself up toward the light.  It was a short climb, and offered an impressive view indeed, after he'd quit squinting and blinking in the now-unfamiliar sunlight. Devin had never seen it from that particular angle, but he was looking out over a mesa to the banks of Thorn Lake itself.  There seemed to be quite a to-do at the waterfront; he could barely pick out individual ships from that far, but he grinned with relief to see the place.

Struck with a thought, he began to feel around in his pockets, but finally remembered his gift from Gadget.  Holding his paw just so, and flicking his wrist, the scalpel flicked out of its springloaded compartment.  He held it up in the light, tilting it back and forth, praying that someone was watching.

_Tina's smile dropped a bit as she looked out across the lake to the distant cliffs above one of the rivers that ran into it.  A light glinted twice, and did not show again._

_"There's a light up in the far cliffs," she said and signed._

Devin frowned and tucked the scalpel away as a cloud cut across the sun.  Well, Thorn Valley was still a good half-hour's hike away, and if Geegaw's warning was right, they had to get moving again.

It ran against his better nature, but he shook Gadget awake (it took some doing).  "Mmmph," she protested, turning her head back against her rough stone pillow.  "Whazzat?"

"Time's wasting, Gadge.  Time to take this show on the road."

"Cliché junkie," she shot back.  "I was having a dream about Dad.  I can still smell Three-In-One machine oil."

"That's not just you," Devin shook his head.  "It looks like you've been sleeping on an oil slick."

"Eww," Gadget wrinkled her nose, running a paw through her still-damp-and-now-greasy headfur.  "You're right!  Dad and that Commander creep must have come this way!"

"And whatever they're carrying, it's leaking, or at least very well-oiled," Devin grimaced.  "That doesn't sound good."

Gadget held out a paw. "We should get moving.  Before they plug it in, or turn it on—"

"—or set it off," Devin nodded, dragging her to her feet.  "Only one way out of here, since we can't climb down."

"Tunnels again," Gadget groaned. "Tunnel, singular, at least."  She shimmied into her scrubs.

"We're south of the lake.  Remember the map back at the chapel?"

Gadget shivered.  "Gave me the creeps, looked like giant red worms munching on Thorn Valley.  We'd be on that map by now."  She cocked her head thoughtfully.  "On the lower right corner.  One main tunnel heading northwest, branches east and west looked unfinished.  That's roughly where we're at."

"Roughly?" coughed Devin.  "What did you do, take a picture?"

"Sorta," she shrugged.  "It comes in handy.  Let's just hope one of these freaking paths leads to ground-level--"

"—or to your Dad and the Commander.  What if we catch up to them?"

Gadget bit her lip.  "It hurts to ask for it.  But pray that one of us has a killer somewhere inside, if we need one."

Button images by Keith Elder


	48. Chapter 48

****

Chapter Forty-Eight

Angela, formerly roving photojournalist of the Thorn Valley Sentinel, lay in her hospital bed, still hooked up to multiple I.V. bags, and with a massive bandage around her middle.  She fumbled her oxygen mask to the side and shook her head feebly.

"That's impossible," she wheezed.

Cynthia Brisby, Captain of the Guard, sat by her bedside, as did Arthur.  Arthur's chair had wheels, and a cheeky lightning-shaped "Thorn Valley Racing Pit Boss" sticker across the back.

Just for emphasis, Cynthia drew her sword and laid it casually across her knees.  "I've seen it myself, Angela," she drummed her pawpads on the flat of the sword.  "There's nothing there."

Arthur chimed in.  "Oh, the rest of your description fits quite well, anyone familiar with the Grand Cavern could tell us a good story."

"Not making it up," Angela insisted.  She shifted and grimaced.

"Angela," Cynthia muttered, "Your supposed access tunnel is full of superheated water.  There's nothing bigger than a microbe in there."

Angela's eyes widened in surprise and confusion.  "Can't be."

"Known about it for years," coughed Arthur.  "Part of the geothermal network.  Always a little bit distressing to have that much blistering-hot water pumping away so close to the Cavern, but there's tons of solid rock separating the two."

"If you know something—really know something," Cynthia tested the edge of her sword, again for effect more than anything else—she always kept it razor-sharp—"If there's anything you aren't telling us, and anyone does get hurt thanks to your lies, I will personally disassociate the various parts of your body."

Angela gulped.  It hurt to gulp.  Hell, it hurt to do anything.  A large steel spike through the gut tended to do that, and Angela had no desire to repeat the experience.  "Only telling you what I know.  I wouldn't lie for them anymore.  Not now."

"We'll see," growled Cynthia, sheathing her sword, leaping to her feet, and wheeling Arthur out of the room.  She would have preferred to stalk out menacingly, but that was more of a solo act.

Cynthia flexed her paws, which were beginning to ache.  Arthur wasn't so easy to push all around the Valley, but he knew almost all of its hidden geological oddities.  If there were approaches by air, sea, or ground that needed defending, Arthur knew about them and could show you a pack of blueprints for improvements.

The underground option was a relatively new concern, since it was assumed that most of the known tunnels trailed off to blind ends, or cavern systems so huge that finding one's way without a compass would have been impossible—the local magnetite deposits made compasses useless in any case.

Now, it had become clear that they were facing an enemy that knew the hidden byways of Thorn Valley as well as (if not better than) its own inhabitants.  The order of the day was to make the spaghetti of tunnels even more confusing if possible, sealing major ones and rerouting paths to lead in huge loops to nowhere.

"Sort of like the L.A. freeway system, eh?" chuckled Arthur, scratching a little at the stitches on his chest.

"Never driven it," Cynthia growled.  "And stop that."  She squinted upward at the ceiling of the Grand Cavern, nearly lost in darkness at such a height.  Ahead of her, clusters of long, low desks with reading lamps swept out in arcs toward a central stage with a podium.  A dozen carpenters and electricians were dashing around through the aisles making last-minute repairs and stringing wires for the translation stations.

_Packing them all in here, this soon, is a mistake. _Cynthia drummed her pawpads on her sword hilt. _ I know it--it'll only remind them--_

"If you've got a spare minute or two, I can have my techs slap a motor on this contraption," Arthur wiggled one of the wheels of his chair.  "Admittedly, a rocket engine would be a bit much…"

"Mom and Justin would never forgive me if you launched yourself off a cliff," Cynthia shook her head.

"Early start on our space program?" Arthur's ears perked up a bit further.

"Not a chance.  How does it look if a secret community like ours starts sending up rockets?  We're trying to stay off the radar."  Cynthia eyed a couple of lost-looking Rescue Aid delegates hanging around the entry doors, still lugging suitcases.  Like so many of the newcomers, these were mice.  "We aren't just risking ourselves anymore, either—if Thorn Valley gets uncovered, it could be the end of Rescue Aid.  Hey, you two--"

Cynthia left Arthur alone for a moment and approached the early arrivals.  "Orientation isn't for another hour yet.  Why don't you boys go get a bite to eat, or find a place for your luggage?"

"They already fed us, ma'am, but they turned us away at the barracks," shrugged one of them.  "Nice sword, by the way. Ceremonial?"

"Quite practical, I'm afraid," Cynthia shook her head.  "Why'd they turn you away?"

"No more room, but they're working on it," sighed the other, sizing up Cynthia.  "You're, ahem, the most petite rat we've seen so far…"

"Cute," grimaced Cynthia.  "Mouse.  MOUSE.  Cynthia Brisby."  She shook hands roughly with the pair in turn.  "I suppose I've been hanging around rats for so long I even smell like one.  Who are you guys, anyway?"

"Just a pair of dubious diplomats," shrugged one.  "I'm Flotsam, the attaché to Antigua."

"Jetsam, undersecretary for Belize.  Way, way under… but I could tell you about it over dinner.  I understand you have a good Chinese restaurant here, and I'm buying."

"Wha—yes, my brother runs it—" Cynthia's brain whirled.

"But he's not Chinese--" Jetsam pointed out.

"--he pretends well," Cynthia cut him off.  "Did you just ask me out?  No, don't answer that.  I'm busy and I have to go.  Try to stay out from underfoot."  She turned on her heel and went to retrieve Arthur.

"Later, then?" called Flotsam.

"Um, sure, all right," Cynthia shot back over her shoulder, wheeling Arthur away a bit more quickly than necessary.

"What was all that about, Cyn?" Arthur cast a bemused glance back at the delegates, who appeared to be gently and patiently arguing about something.

"I think one or both of them just asked me for a date," muttered Cynthia.  "And I think I said yes, but I'm not sure to what."

"Diplomats," nodded Arthur.  "They'll talk you in circles.  Malachi's going to be jealous, I think—"

"I think I'd like him a little jealous; it might light a fire under him," smirked Cynthia.  "But enough of this malarkey.  Have you had your fill of the Cavern?"

"Mmm-hmm," grunted Arthur, folding a set of blueprints on his lap.  "Well, I know those two jackanapes over there didn't get the suitcases in without being searched—"

"I'd chew out my entire security detail if they let that slip—"

"I'm sure.  But it would take something much bigger than that, to hold enough explosives to put a dent in the Cavern.  No one will be able to look crosseyed at the place without us knowing about it."

"There's always a way," fretted Cynthia.  "Just because we don't see it doesn't mean it isn't there."

Devin was once more vindicated in his love for all things with pockets.

Though he and Gadget had abandoned their backpacks back at the Commander's lair, his lab coat had turned to be almost as good as a department store.  From its multizippered, over-fastenered depths, they had salvaged a surprising amount of flotsam and jetsam of their own.

To wit:  
One set of lockpicks ("How did those get in here?" said Devin, all innocence).  
One half bar of chocolate,melted (and quickly licked into nonexistence).  
One miniature screwdriver, immediately surrendered to Gadget. Better than a security blanket.  
One penlight, lens slightly fogged from steam, but with a nice strong battery.

The last of these was shining on an odd symbol marked on the wall in red paint.  "Hey, Gadge, come here and take a look at this!"

"Hmm," squinted Gadget.  "That's a strange variation…"

"On what?"

"Cave mapping symbol.  You see them more on maps, not on cave walls themselves.  Someone's been through here searching the tunnels."  She traced the symbol in the air with one paw.  _Opens to the outside…should be climbable without tools…_

"That's got to be the Guard, right?" Devin grinned hopefully. "That's a good thing, then.  Group B wouldn't leave marks all over the place if they were trying to be sneaky—"

"Well, this is our exit, if we're getting out.  We'll probably come out somewhere close to the lake watchtowers, if I remember correctly."

Devin shone the penlight around the tunnel.  A patch of floor glimmered in the light.  "More oil.  It looks like the Commander and your father went that way."

"Gimme that for a second," Gadget narrowed her eyes distrustfully at the oil slick, and Devin handed the penlight to her.  She paced across the tunnel and shone the light all around the entrance to that branch.  "They couldn't have."

"Why?"

"There's another marking here, it says this tunnel is …not blocked exactly—full.  Full of running water."  She took a few steps down the tunnel.

"I can hear it from here—they probably doubled back—" cautioned Devin.  "C'mon, let's get out while the getting's good…"

"No, no--we would have run into them—they went ahead."

"But—"

Gadget wheeled around and put a pawpad to her lips.  "Shh!  If this tunnel is blocked, we might be right on top of them!"

"Okay, okay," Devin said in a slightly more hushed voice.  "We go and take a look.  If they are there and there's more than a few of them, we go for help.  Deal?"

"Deal.  But you be sure, Dev—you could go for help yourself… Geegaw's my father, you don't have to do this--"

Devin stepped away from the all-too-tempting exit, and took her paw in his. "I'd never forgive myself if I left you and something happened.  Let's go."

Gadget bit her lip and nodded.  They crept around the bend toward the sound of bubbling water, all their fur on end.

_That was our chance,_ Devin gulped.

The tunnel opened up into a little rounded cavern, and Devin could feel the temperature rise as soon as they stepped in.  The smell of sulfur hung in the air. Gurgling, superhot water flowed in from a fissure in the wall, formed a sizeable pool (all crusty around the edges) and drained through a hole deep below.  No one else was there.

"Well, that's that, then—" Devin sighed in relief.

"No," Gadget frowned.  "Shine the light on the water again."

Devin turned the penlight back, and its beam danced across the surface of the pool.  A rainbow shimmer floated across it.  He groaned in recognition. "That's more oil—"

"Don't think it's natural," Gadget kicked at the edge of the pool.  "Whatever that contraption is, it's still leaking and leaving us a trail."  She dipped a toe quickly in the water and pulled it back, sucking in her breath and hopping on one foot.  "Golly gee, that was stupid."

"Careful, Gadge!  What, they just dropped it in?"

"Maybe," mused Gadget.  "But they can't have just made themselves disappear.  I think they drained it somehow and went through."  She backed away from the pool and started kicking at rocks, grasping at stalactites, tapping on walls.  "Help me look for anything loose or movable, Dev."

Devin started picking around the cavern himself, praying he wouldn't find anything, and not sure he'd tell her if he did.  After a few minutes of fruitless searching, they sat against a wall to think.  Gadget pounded on it three times in frustration.

With the luck that some adventurers have, that would have triggered a pressure plate in the wall, but perhaps that would have been asking for a little too much.

CLICK

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Gadget whirled around to look at a still-receding section of wall.  Rocks grated against each other with a sandpapery rasp, and the edges of the fissure in the wall closed together.  The steaming, sulfur-tinged water sucked out the hole at the bottom of the pool, leaving a clear, smooth path to the drainhole.

"I'm going in," Gadget announced grimly, and began cautiously working her way down the still-steaming rock.

"Don't suppose there's any talking you out of it," Devin grumbled, but followed.

Their short stumble through a low tunnel was rewarded when it opened up into respectable standing room again, and Gadget pointed out some rough stairs chipped into one wall of the tunnel.  Whatever happened, it was good to be above the water line.

Very good, as it turned out—Gadget and Devin reached a higher landing just as the flow of water rose again below.  "Gods, that smells," sniffed Devin.

"Don't think they'll be bottling it anytime soon.  Lucky thing we made it through there in time."  She put a questioning paw on a cart full of rocks, making the wheels creak—a short length of track led up the nearby tunnel.  Yet another unnatural feature, and not a comforting one.

"That's not sunlight," whispered Devin.

"That's not a natural tunnel, either.  Someone's been excavating…"  Gadget hefted her needle-pistol and headed up the slope.

Quiet as ghosts, they followed the tracks.  Every now and then they had to duck to avoid a still-glowing lantern. _I wish we had a pack of Guard rats ahead of us with swords and really nifty uniforms, _gulped Devin.

"Who's there?" called an unfamiliar voice.  Unfamiliar to Devin, at least.  "Quick, dammit!" came the voice again

"Dad?" quivered Gadget.  "DAD!"

"Be careful, Gadge, we don't know—" Devin winced, as she hurtled headlong down the tunnel and kneeled by an indistinct lump.  He rushed to catch up with her.

"Gadget?  Get out of here!" hissed the voice.

Geegaw Hackwrench lay hogtied against one side of the tunnel. Gadget was feverishly tearing at his bonds.  "Devin!" she shrieked.  "Get your scalpel!"

A flick of the wrist and the scalpel was in his good paw, as he bent to saw at the cords.  They came apart like butter.

"You fools!  They've circled back behind us!  They left me here as bait—"

A scuffling noise beside Devin made him turn around involuntarily.  A large chunk of wood followed, rendering him unconscious in the blink of an eye.

Button images by Keith Elder


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

They watched the ceiling nervously, though—as would soon become all too clear—not closely enough.

Just as Cynthia had feared, the high-domed openness, the "meeting-placeness" of the Grand Cavern was an instant fight-or-flight trigger for a few of the Rescue Aid delegates—mostly survivors of the attack on the abandoned Rescue Aid Headquarters.  The experience was too deeply etched in some of them; blustering and waving off old fears one moment, they were struck with remembered horror in the next.

Arthur had a partial technical solution; the little grassy field just before the reinforced tunnel entrance was soon dotted with shaky delegates adjusting their wireless headsets, some of them folding their ears under to get them on properly.  The fresher air and sunlight seemed to do some good; still the range of emotions running through the "outside" group ran from shame (unwarranted but feeling no less real) to bewilderment.

The remaining delegates who summoned up the courage to step inside the Grand Cavern (and stay) had only kind words for those who could not.

The desks ranging out across the floor of the Cavern were mostly laid out along geographical lines, with shiny new brass placards for each country (straight from the Forge, and with only a couple of spelling mistakes).  A brighter touch, though not evenly applied:  Sophie Brisby and her parents stood at the entrance with a huge collection of salvaged flags from the old Headquarters.  Even the delegates for whom Sophie had no flags would pat her on the head with a "Bless you, child,"—the scattering of color throughout the room was some comfort.

The settling in and settling down, the quick exchange of new names that wouldn't stick the first time—all of this wound down, replaced by an expectant hush.

On the central stage, the emcees for the evening (as it were) faced their audience and shuffled their feet.  They sat in four chairs, out of fifty or more left empty—the Cavern's stage was still set up from a recent Thorn Valley Symphony concert, and getting the extra chairs out had been at the bottom of the maintenance list.

Still heavily bandaged, Bernard did not look as though he was in any hurry to stand up, even with the help of the crutches. A couple of paramedics from the Institute stood by off-stage, waiting for him to try it.  "So," he whispered to Bianca, "Who wants to go first?"

"I think it's only fair to let our hosts start off," she whispered back.  "You don't have to talk unless you want to, darling—I'm only a little scratched up, but you should be in bed."

Bernard nodded, sagging a little.  A paramedic took a half-step toward him, but Bernard straightened up in his seat.  "After the ceremony, I promise.  I'll even let them stick the I.V. back in."

Elizabeth looked to Bernard and Bianca, who nodded back.  Justin put out a paw graciously and gave her a boost up as she stood, but pushed her lightly in the back toward the microphone.  "Go get 'em, Liz," he grinned, as she caught her balance and glowered back at him.

Gripping the microphone stand and lowering it to her height, Elizabeth cleared her throat.  "Ahem.  Well, welcome to the Grand Cavern, everyone.  I see a lot of new faces; some of you came to visit on exchange trips.  A couple of you grew up here, or trained as doctors at the Institute before turning to the dark side—politics—"

This earned her a few chuckles and rolled eyes around the Cavern.  "The most important thing I have to say," she continued, "whether this is your first time here or not--things have changed.  We face the same enemies, who seem bent on our destruction precisely because we do work together.  They cannot stand the idea of different species living together in peace—"

She reached a paw back toward Justin, who took it— "or loving each other.  This isn't a war with a front line you can draw on a map.  Even if we beat the ones we know about, new ones will spring up to take their places.  The only way to fight these enemies is to keep proving them wrong." She suddenly stamped a foot on the stage, making Justin and the others jump.  "YOU CAN DO THAT HERE," she boomed into the microphone.

An exotic stew of exclamations and mutterings swept back and forth across the cavern floor.  Bernard put a hand over his heart.  "Warn us next time," he breathed…

"This place is yours," Elizabeth went on. "For as long as you need it.  Talk.  Plan.  Argue.  Then go out into the bigger world and try things.  You need technology?  We have engineers, Arthur will train anyone he can grab."

"He's always poaching my best students from the Institute!" cried Dr. Ages, from somewhere at the back.

"Don't blow a gasket, you old coot," Arthur huffed.

"Settle down, you two," growled Justin, into the microphone as he snagged it from Elizabeth.  "We must have enough doctors left over--they're already our biggest export.  But like Elizabeth says, you need anything from us, all you have to do is ask.  Easier than that, even—if you need it, take it."  Justin gritted his teeth.  "Thorn Valley has been looking out for itself, for too long.  We've turned a blind eye to the troubles of the outside world.  It's time we did our share."

Justin turned and handed the microphone to Bianca.  "Don't feel so bad, Justin," she covered the microphone with one paw as he sat down, "we're all in this together now."

Bianca took her paw off the microphone and scanned the crowd.  "I'd bang a gavel or something, if it would make you feel more at home.  I can, at least, declare that Rescue Aid Society is now in session."  The delegates began to whistle and pound on their desks, finally breaking into a full cheer, but Bianca made a calming motion with her free paw and they settled back down.  "This isn't the usual order of things, but I think you'll forgive me—we have a pending membership application from a little place called Thorn Valley.  I highly recommend you vote for their inclusion, as members of their security forces with extremely sharp swords are guarding all the exits."

Nervous laughter greeted this observation as the delegates all craned around for a view of the uniformed Guard-rats – Cynthia was also at the main exit, hanging back in the shadows and hoping that two delegates in particular did not try to wave hello.

"So, let's hear it then!  Voice vote on inclusion of Thorn Valley as a permanent member of the R.A.S. Security Council.  Those in favor?"

"AYE!" the delegates boomed back, in apparent unison.

"Those opposed?"  Bianca tacked on, for sake of form.

"Nay," came a single voice, from near the United States desk.  Everyone turned to look for its source.  Timothy held his paw up and waved from the Thorn Valley desk, to take away any doubt.

Elizabeth put her head in her paws, groaning.  "Every time, Timmy, why every time?"

_What are you playing at?_ signed Tina.

_Easy, Tina,_ he signed back.

"All right then," Bianca coughed.  "The ayes have it, motion passes!  Any particular reason why this should not have been a unanimous vote?  Especially when the only 'nay' comes from the proposed member state, whose vote doesn't count yet?"

"Sure," grinned Timothy, leaning over his own microphone.  "By the way, is this thing on?  I can't hear myself."  The other delegates nodded at him and he went on.  "Just letting you know that I'm not going to rubber-stamp everything that comes up for a vote.  I'll always be a thorn in your side, when Thorn Valley needs me to be one."

"Fair enough," Bianca frowned.  "You're going to be trouble."

"No, he's not," chuckled the Commander.  "Trouble takes time, and you're out of it." 

He drew his ear back from a small hole in a wall, lined with an egg-crate-like material.  Thousands of tiny rock flakes still littered the floor, chipped out of it by Group B workers, swept up, and carted away in countless loads by the nearby minecart and its electric winch.  Only a thin shell of rock-coated plaster now lay between the dim, dusty hollow and the open air of the Grand Cavern.  The Commander rapped on the wall with his knuckles, savoring the sound, or rather the way it immediately fell dead in the air.

Devin and Gadget were tied, back-to-back, to a wooden support beam at one side of the hollow.  Gadget was mostly all right, save for a welt above her right eye.  Devin was not so fortunate; he hung limply with a split lip, a broken front tooth, and one eye nearly swollen shut.  Geegaw was closer to the Commander, but carefully hogtied again.  He shifted and strained against his bonds as they cut through his fur and into his flesh; the Commander had wisely left him little room to wiggle this time.

"You've hurt her, I know you have.  I'm going to rip your liver apart with my bare hands, you know," seethed Geegaw.

"Had some time to think this one out, have you?"  the Commander smiled.   "Isolation has improved your temperament.  Don't worry; we slapped her around a little, but nothing as rough as we gave her pet lab rat."

"Pet…" mumbled Devin, blinking and straightening his head (he immediately whacked it against the wooden post).  "Ow!  Pet, huh?  Come a little closer and I'll pet you with my foot," he spat, a sliver of his former tooth tinkling to the floor.

"Papa?"  Gadget struggled to look over her shoulder, but could not see him.  "Papa, I thought I lost you—"

"You're going to," the Commander said gravely.  "He's really more trouble than he's worth, and as soon as this little escapade is over, I don't think I'll have any more need of his services."

"Don't you touch him!" growled Gadget.

"Ah, but you are the feisty one, aren't you?  I bet you were plenty of fun for Turner's crew—"

"Fun they'll pay for," Gadget snarled, the words dropping out like icecubes.

"I don't see any crew here," Devin squinted in the dim lantern-light.  "What, now you've got us tied up and you don't need your thugs anymore?  Coward!"

"Not that it's any of your concern," yawned the Commander.  "They're out on business."

In a deeper, darker tunnel, a few dozen rats with needle-guns waited around the corner from a stone wall.  One of them held a plunger attached to wires snaking around the corner, where a cache of dynamite lay.

"You know the drill," said the plunger-rat.

"Drill, that's funny, yeah," snickered another rat. "Because we're gonna drill through that wall—"

"Shaddup.  Once the wall is blown, the main branches past the breach all lead to the perimeter of the Valley floor.  We cut off their exits, shoot anyone who tries to break past us, and hold the line until the Commander gives the signal."

"What's this signal again?" the other rat scratched his head.

"It'll sound like a steam whistle out of hell," grunted the plunger-rat.  "You'll know it when you hear it.  Everybody back from the bend!"

The Group B rats all crouched against the wall as the one with the plunger twisted the handle and pressed it in.

It was a strangely muffled explosion, all their lanterns suddenly snuffed.  Water rushed in to fill all space, the rats wheeling madly and spun off down into drowning depths.

_That wasn't supposed to—_thought the plunger-rat, as the waters claimed him.

High above, the stillness of Thorn Lake was broken as a churning, gurgling whirlpool appeared, sucking fish and algae and who-knows-what into the tunnels running below.  At the edge of the maelstrom, the big old pike flailed valiantly to escape the sucking maw, forced ever closer to its center.

Realizing instinctively that the fight was lost, the pike gave a shrug-like flick of his tail and aimed straight for the middle of the trouble.  He sized up the hole, flushed some extra water over his gills for a little O2, and made the plunge.

_Oh well,_ he thought, _I always did want to travel._

At the back of the Grand Cavern, a sentry rat dashed in and hurriedly exchanged words with Cynthia.  She pounded him happily on the shoulder—he retreated with a painful but ungrudging salute, and Cynthia stalked triumphantly down toward the center platform.

"It worked," she shot out the side of her mouth at Arthur as she passed him.

Elizabeth came over and bent the side of the stage to confer in whispers with her daughter, and stood back up with a hand over her heart.  She rushed to Justin's side and relayed the news.  Justin stood up and snatched the microphone from Bianca.

"Sorry, Bianca, I'll let you get back to roll call in a second—everyone, please keep your seats—we've just gotten word—"

"My boys must have broken through the wall," gloated the Commander.  "You're trapped, Justin, you're all trapped.  And this is going to be just like shooting fish in a barrel.  Good night, lights out—"

The Commander pulled a tarp off a sizeable lump nearby the plaster shell.  There, glittering and exposed, lay the "devil's beach ball", the spheroid bomb with its thousands of packets of needles.

"Devin, what's he doing, what's he got over there?" cried Gadget, scrabbling to wrench herself around.

"Looks big," observed Devin, whistling a little around the broken tooth.  "Metal, but looks like the Death Star made out of honeycomb."

Gadget tilted her head and "hmmed" to herself.  Devin could feel it through the wood—_Are__ those gears turning in your head, Gadge?  C'mon, think us out of here!_

"Goddamn," she stated flatly.  "It's a shrapnel bomb."

"Gooood," the Commander widened his eyes and nodded.  "Like father, like daughter.  She's quick!  Wrong place, wrong time, right answer."

"HELP!" screamed Geegaw.  "HE'S GOT A BOMB!  GET OUT!  GET OUT"

The others took up his cries, but nothing happened.  After about thirty seconds, hoarse and weary, they gave it up.

"Nobody got out," mourned Geegaw, disappointed to the core.

"Satisfied?" smirked the Commander.  "We soundproofed this place as we went.  That's not decoration up on the walls, it's studio-quality quiet."  The Commander hefted the bomb, straining under its weight, and set it against the wall, beneath the spyhole.   He put his ear to the hole again.

"Yes, we're absolutely certain," Justin nodded at an incredulous delegate.  "There's no way they could have survived; the tunnel was rigged to drain the whole lake onto them if they breached the wall.  We'll have to collapse that tunnel before the lake will return to normal levels—"

The Commander staggered back from the wall.  "No.  NO!!  Damn you, Justin, not all of them, how could you –"

He began pacing aimlessly around the hollow, biting at his claws.

"You look distracted.  I like that in a villain," Devin flashed a gaptoothed grin.

"Shut up Shut Up SHUT UP!!" screamed the Commander.  He latched onto a pickaxe and swung it around in a deadly arc—Devin twisted to one side as the pick bit into the wooden support and sent splinters into his already-battered face.  The Commander wrenched at the tool, but it was solidly stuck.

He kicked Devin in the ribs, left the pickaxe hanging, and dashed to the table by the wall where the shrapnel bomb lay.  "I'll get more of them, Justin.  I'll call in reserves.  I'll get them all to come—they'll swarm over your muddy lakebed, over the falls, and tear the place down around your ears!"

Geegaw's ears pricked up suddenly.  "Say, O resident homicidal lunatic--or is it genocidal?"

"What are you blathering about, you useless mechanical mangler?!" The Commander planted his feet and flexed his paws.  He put a paw against the one opening in the bomb's surface.

"Nothing much, I just hear you grunting away trying to push that silly contraption of mine through the wall by yourself.  I do have one question for you—"

"Oh, quit stalling for time and ask the damn question."

"Fine.  What goes 'squish' and jumps at you out of the dark?"

"Wha—" the Commander started.

"That," Geegaw answered for him.  A large furious bundle of rat sprang into the room and barreled into the Commander, snarling and snapping, dripping wet.

"Turner!" cried Gadget.  "What the hell?"

"Sorry I'm late," Turner shot over his shoulder, as the Commander grabbed a lantern and smashed it into his face.  Liquid flame poured out across his neck and shoulder, but fizzled.  Turner clawed at shards of glass in his cheek and batted at sparks, smoldering but not alight.  "I'm soaked, psycho—try burning a wet towel—"  The Commander leapt for the shrapnel bomb again.

Not one to waste time, Devin wrenched his back against the support.  He and Gadget worked their bonds up close to the axe-blade of the pickaxe, only close and sharp enough to shave a thread or two off the rope, but they kept working at it.

"I hear a good scuffle!  Who is that?" called Geegaw.

"Handsome young fellow," toothed Turner, picking one of the larger pieces of glass out of his cheek and pegging it at the Commander.  He batted the Commander's paw away from the aperture of the bomb, but the Commander whipped around and wrapped both paws around Turner's throat.  Turner wheezed and whirled the Commander around like a top—one of the smaller rat's legs knocked the bomb against the plastered wall.

A large chunk of plaster broke away near the ceiling of the Grand Cavern.  It hurtled to the floor and nearly clocked Justin—Bernard spotted it a second before and jabbed Justin with a crutch, making him jump out of the way.

"Well, I'm glad I came after all," whistled Bernard.

"Please, don't panic," Justin said automatically into the microphone, "not yet, anyway--"

Many of the delegates were already out of their seats and coming up for a closer look.  All other eyes trained upwards toward a dark hole that had appeared, as Justin, Elizabeth, and Bianca bent to examine the plaster.  "ARTHUR!" yelled Justin.  "Wheel your tail up here right now and take a look at this!  It's not natural!"

One of the ropes holding Devin and Gadget finally parted; they fumbled the rest of the bonds off and stood back from the fight.

"Should we help?" Gadget rubbed her sore wrists and tried to follow the action as Turner and the Commander shredded chunks of fur and flesh from each other.

"I wouldn't know where to start," offered Devin.

"Don't let him set it off!" screamed Geegaw.  "That's a start!"

Through some uncanny combination of hate and determination, the Commander wrenched one of his arms free of Turner and jabbed it at the bomb.  Turner crammed his paw in after, trying to pull the other rat away, but a sickening, crunching CLICK sounded.

"Oh, no, they hit the first switch!" gasped Geegaw.  "Get down!  Get out!  Get behind something!"

The Commander yelped in pain and Turner hissed as they lifted the bomb off the table, still shoving and clawing at each other but distracted by a new pain and inability to let go of the thing.  "Let go of me, you murdering bastard!"  Turner slammed the bomb back onto the table.  "What did you stab me with in there?"

"I'm not doing it!" shrieked the Commander.  "It's his goddamn bomb!  It's grabbed me!"  He turned a bloody, feverish eye on Geegaw and tried to scrabble after him.

Turner grabbed the Commander by the scruff of the neck with his free paw and slammed his head into the table.  Bringing the bomb up over his head, he slammed it into the floor, carrying himself and the Commander with it.

"Devin!  Quick, your lab coat!  It's that needle-stop material!" Turner barked, as the Commander resumed his thrashing.  Devin whipped off the coat and flung it over the bomb.  The Commander thrashed and kicked, clawing at the coat—Gadget leapt in and pinned his legs.  "Keep it covered or we're all dead!" Devin pulled on the coat with all his might, stretching it across the bomb.  He put a knee in the Commander's back, trying to help Gadget keep him still.   A repeating click sounded from the inside of the bomb, faster and faster.

"It didn't go off, it didn't go off," Gadget yelled for Geegaw's benefit. 

"It's building up pressure!" screamed Geegaw.  "Get back!"

Turner tucked the lab coat around the bomb as best as he could from his side, then lay on it.

Devin and Gadget shook their heads at him. "No!  Not on top--" cried Gadget.

A moment later, the weapon erupted with a shriek like all of the winds in the world at once.  Devin howled but could not hear himself.  A few stray needles whistled past his cheek, one piercing straight through his ear. He and Gadget screamed wordlessly, Geegaw unable to even cover his ears, all writhing helpless in an eternal moment of sound made pain.

It cut off like a switch, leaving only a ringing in the ears and a faint susurration of panic drifting up from the Cavern floor below. 

The Commander still struggled weakly, trying in vain to drag himself away from his broken son and the spent weapon. He was leaving most of one arm behind, tangled up in the forest of steel spikes that glimmered around the edges of the "beach ball", driven into tiny cracks in the stone floor.  Gadget and Devin crawled back, recoiling in horror.

Turner did not move or speak.

"No, NO! Wasted!  So much work, so much time, I HATE YOU!" the Commander worked up a bloody mouth of spit and launched it at Turner.  Turner twitched as it slid down into his whiskers. "What kind of son are you?!"

Devin and Gadget pushed and pulled at each other, still numb, but managed to get each other to an upright sit.  "We stopped it, Dev, we stopped it," Gadget kept saying.

"Somebody tell me what's going on!" insisted Geegaw.

"It blew up," Devin understated.  "Or blew out—"

"They didn't drop it?" Geegaw trembled.  "Oh thank God—"

"Turner?" Gadget broke off her litany.  "Turner, can you hear me?"  She stood up and staggered a couple of steps toward him.

Turner opened one eye.  It was the only one he had, Gadget realized as he turned his head a bit.  What was left of his head. "Don't look," he ordered.  "Getting up."

"Don't!" cried Devin, "Stay down and we'll get you some hel—oh, sweet Jesus—"

Against medical advice, Turner unfolded, his free arm cradling the bloodied weapon, the Commander thrashing and snarling but unable to find purchase on the floor.  Turner's blood spattered down, and he slipped in it a little, fighting to stay upright.

"Turner, don't move!  You'll hurt yourself worse!" cried Gadget.  She grabbed so tight to Devin's arm that he still felt it days after.

"Not bloody possible," Turner frothed, turning another shade of red. "Which way?" he hissed, from a hundred holes.

"Don't do this, Turner," begged Devin.  "There must be something—"

"If I don't—you might—let him live—" Turner gasped. "Which way?"

No one answered him for a few seconds, but Geegaw spoke up.  "Two steps to your left, I should think."

"Thanks," bubbled Turner, forcing more blood down his front.

"He's insane, he's insane," gibbered the Commander.  "Don't let him do it!"

Devin grabbed at Turner as he fell toward the hole, but only got a grasp on one of his ears.  It held for a moment, but snapped away.  He stared dumbly at the thing in his paw—not a proper ear at all, but a cleverly worked piece of leather and velvet—

Turner and the Commander crashed through the damaged wall and dropped like twin stones – or rather like a whirling planet and its insignificant satellite – and hit with a simultaneous, sickening slap on the stone floor far below.

A fresh round of distant screams and muffled orders leaked through the gap in the wall.  "They fell?" choked Geegaw.

"Yes. Yes, they did," Devin staggered back from the hole, seeking solid ground closer to Gadget.  His stomach was one huge knot of terror and relief, eating itself.

"It's over, then," Geegaw breathed.  Tears began to roll down his cheeks.  "Thank God it's over.  Oh, poor Growler, he saved us--"

Devin sighted his lost scalpel on a pile of wood, retrieved, it, and numbly reeled over to free Geegaw.  "Gadget, get over here!" Devin called her, sawing at the ropes.  "Stay untied this time, Mr. Hackwrench."

"I'll do my best," Geegaw flexed his paws.  "Gadget, please, where are you?"

"That's funny," Gadget said in a hollow, quiet way, as though it were the least funny thing she had ever said.

"I don't like the sound of that," gulped Geegaw.

She brushed a distracted paw at her outfit, just below her collarbone.  "Can't wipe it off," she frowned, irritated now, as her paw left a red pinstripe down her chest.

"Gadget, sit down," Devin barked, and though Gadget nodded, she listed to one side and slid halfway down the stone wall, crumpling to her knees and flat onto her face.

Devin rushed to her side, leaving Geegaw clutching after him in confusion. Devin managed to roll her onto her back—her breath still came strong, but she was working hard at it, a faint high-pitched wheeze trailing each lungful.

"Gadget?  Are you all right?" called Geegaw.  "Did she faint?"

"No!  I think she's hurt!" Devin fumbled at the zipper of Gadget's jumpsuit, but it slalomed off-track and jammed on a broken zipper-tooth.  _Broken?  What the hell broke it?  _

"…something…punched me in the chest…" Gadget murmured, and her eyes slipped to the side, hazy and unfocused.

 "Mister Hackwrench!" Devin screamed.  "Pleasepleasepleaseplease…"  Geegaw stumbled over rocks and tools, toward his frantic voice.  Devin dragged the old mouse down to crouch by his daughter and guided his paws over the jammed zipper.  "Get this goddamned thing off her!  I've only got one paw working!"

Geegaw gasped and set his steely paws to either side of the zipper.  He jerked the sides apart and the zipper-pull zinged away like a shot.  Devin could see a spreading, seeping patch of blood welling up from Gadget's chest.  He rolled the jumpsuit carefully down over her shoulders and reached underneath her.

He pulled his paw back sweaty but unbloodied.  He pressed it against the trickle of blood, now becoming a small stream, running from what had to be an entry wound, though it was so small—the faint whistling noise shut off like a switch.

_Lungs,_ Devin's mind gibbered.  _It's one of the needles from that—oh, God, it's punctured a lung and it's still in her—_

Gadget gurgled and a light red froth bubbled at her lips.  Devin felt his own blood rush out of his face, and a creeping horror threatened to overtake him.  Devin frantically skinned out of his undershirt, wadded it up and held it tight against her wound.  _Don't press too hard, you don't know where that needle is… _"Come on, Gadget, sweetheart, stay with us!"

"What's going on?" Geegaw leaned in closer to Devin, voice trembling.

"One of those needles got her in the chest, I think!  Gadget!  Stay awake!"

The blood-spattered lab coat lay nearby—needles were driven halfway through it in places, but the stethoscope still hung out of one pocket—Devin snatched it up and jammed the earpieces in, resting the chestpiece over her heart and praying the needle was lodged somewhere it could do no more damage.  He squeezed his eyes shut tight as he heard an unnatural lurch and crackle to her heartbeat, muttering negations under his breath.

"Can you move her?" quivered Geegaw.

"No, that would be a really bad idea," Devin shuddered. _Her heart is ripping itself to shreds against that needle,_ he could have added, but instead, he slid the stethoscope lower, over Gadget's rounded stomach.  A much smaller, much quieter heartbeat ticked valiantly. _God, don't let it get any quieter…_

"Help!" yelled Geegaw, through the hole.  "It's an emergency!  Get anything medical you can lay your paws on!"

"Who the hell are you?" boomed Justin, from the hastily evacuated Grand Cavern.  Elizabeth stood by his side, warily watching the hole, paws clenched.  A couple of Guard-rat archers brought up their crossbows, but Cynthia motioned them to lower their weapons.

"Geegaw Hackwrench!  Gadget's here, and she's in a bad way!"

"Holy hell," gritted Justin.  "Drop us a line if you can!"

"Wait a second!"  Geegaw retreated into the hole, and after a shriek of twisting metal, a minecart hurtled back out.  A long thin cable whiplashed after it—Justin and the others jumped back as it crashed down by the covered bodies of Turner and the Commander.

Geegaw collapsed in an exhausted heap, but pushed Devin back toward Gadget.  "Don't worry about me, take care of Gadget!"

"I don't know if I can," Devin bit his lip.  "But I'm going to try."  He snagged a lantern from the wall (one that hadn't been dashed to bits by the Commander and Turner in their whirlwind fight).  He picked up his scalpel from beside Gadget, crouched over her, and drew an imaginary dotted line along the side of her chest.  _Be sure of what you're getting into—_ he felt Gadget's pulse again—fainter now, and going.  _Nothing else for it.__  I can hear the medical board screaming already…_

"Mister Hackwrench," Devin gulped.  "I hear you're good with tools.  Does that include a hammer and chisel?"  He snatched the tools one by one and folded Geegaw's restless paws around them.

"You mean--oh, God, no" moaned Geegaw.

"That needle has got to come out, or it'll kill her.  I'll put the chisel where it needs to go."  Praying, he rummaged around in the shredded lab coat and found a half-empty, punctured soft-pack ampoule of Betadine.  _Thank god I'm such a packrat,_ he breathed a sigh of relief.

Geegaw swelled up, hissing like a kettle about to boil.  "You're joking!  Operating on her?  Here?"

Devin threw a despairing look at the dark tunnel back into the labyrinth.

"If I don't get it out, she's done for.  And she's carrying your grandchild."

Geegaw sagged, but kept a stranglehold grip on the hammer and chisel.  "God help us all.  Get started, then."

Devin turned a knob on the lantern, opened the glass shield around the wick, and ran the scalpel through the flame.   For good measure, he flamed the tip of the chisel as well, and handed it back to Geegaw.   He slathered one side of Gadget's chest with the Betadine, steeled himself, and lowered the scalpel.  Gadget had made it well; it cut straight through the fur, skin, and muscle, and down to the bone.  Good clean edges.  It was just like pulling a zipper, but smoother.  Devin was grateful Geegaw couldn't see it.

Devin chose a rib and pulled Geegaw closer, guiding the tip of the scalpel to rest on the underside of the glistening rib exposed through the incision.

"Feel that?"

Geegaw nodded.  "Please don't make me do this."

"You'll be fine!  One good tap, like cracking an egg.  Just get me in there!"

Geegaw cringed, but let fly with the hammer.  The blow struck off-center, sending a bloodspatter and a chip of bone flying.  The hammer-head struck Gadget's side with a resounding THUMP! that sounded worse than it looked.

Geegaw dropped the hammer and chisel and began to sob.  "She'll be all right!" Devin screamed at him.  Geegaw howled with grief and began pulling his whiskers out.

"Mister Hackwrench,"  Devin tried more calmly.  "This is the best invention you ever made.  Help me fix her."

Geegaw swallowed and readied the chisel again. "For Gadget," he whispered.  "And for Annabelle."

Devin only had a split second to wonder who Annabelle was, for Geegaw struck like thunder—like the old god Vulcan hammering away at his forge—one true and solid strike, and Gadget's rib nearly jumped apart as it split.

"Did I do it?!  Did I—"

Devin had his gloved paw around the broken rib in an instant.  "You did just fine." _I'd give my right paw for a rib spreader, though.   _"Grab the other rib!  The one underneath the break!"

Geegaw felt around and got his grip, his tears pelting his daughter's fur.  By this time Devin's own were in full flow, and he didn't give a damn—he just wished their tears weren't the only saline solution in this hellhole.

"Make a wish," breathed Geegaw.

"You know it already.  One—two—three!"  They both pulled, and though the sound tore at their hearts, it left Devin with an open view of their prize.

Devin sliced open the membrane around Gadget's heart – it was like a Ziploc baggie full of blood, and it drained in a rush.  Free of the pressure, Gadget's heart worked a little easier—a mixed blessing, as the unseen needle thrashed and tore all the worse. 

Devin reached in and wrapped Gadget's heart up in his paw.  It leapt and fluttered—for a moment he marveled how he could nearly wrap the paw around it.  He felt the blood squirt from a hole that had no business being there.

Floating in the heart, seesawing with each beat of Gadget's heart, was the long, cruel needle ripping at the delicate organ, its sharp ends still at their terrible work.  He could feel it but hardly see it for the blood.

Unable to get a grip on the needle, still working almost as blind as Geegaw, he made a grim choice and got a pawpad around one end of the needle.  It slipped and skittered, but he managed to drive it into his own flesh.  He yelped but pulled back, and the needle came away just enough for him to get a purchase on it.  He pulled his paw out from Gadget's ribcage, yanked the needle out from between his pawpads with his teeth, and spat the hateful thing away.

"So much blood, I can feel the blood," sobbed Geegaw, head in paws.

Devin put his paw back against her heart, one pawpad plugging the hole, and tried to hold her together.  "Come on, Gadget, you fight for us, keep it up—"

Gadget's breath, labored until now but some sign of hope, finally stilled.

"Oh, no, oh, no—I can't hear her breathe-- come on and breathe," pleaded Geegaw.

Devin bent and breathed for her, then went on working at her tattered heart.  Thirty pumps, two breaths.  Thirty pumps, two breaths.

He kept it up until a couple of Institute paramedics clambered into the hole, courtesy of the electric winch.

They made him stop.

Button images by Keith Elder


	50. Chapter 50

****

Chapter Fifty

It was a fine fall afternoon, but Devin barely glanced at the turning leaves, sun glinting down through them as he followed the path down toward the Institute.  He considered finding something to eat, but a deeper and tougher ache than hunger turned his thoughts from food.

A reddish-brown streak hurtled out of nowhere.  "Debbin!" cried Runner, giving him a bouncy hug.   One of his legs was a little thinner than the other, but the cast was off and he seemed none the worse for wear.  Devin half-smiled and gave the young squirrel a weary pat on the shoulder.

"Hey, Runner, old pal. Looks like that leg's mended up nicely," Devin noted.  "Haven't seen you much since the memorial service."

"Don't like foonerals," Runner screwed up his face.  "Sad, so sad.  Thad was my firs' one!"

"Not mine," Devin shook his head.  "What have you been up to?"

"Jus' been skibbing rocks down by the waberfall and thinking bout Gadgit.  I miss her a lot."

Devin sighed.  "You and me both.  Hey, find a few good rocks for me, maybe I'll join you tomorrow.  I'm sure Gadget--" he teared up a little, but put on a brave face for Runner.  "I'm sure she'd be proud to hear how well you're talking these days."

Runner cocked his head to the side.  "Gadgit hears me.  Jus' cause she don' talk back don' mean she don' listen," Runner balled up his paw and punched Devin lightly on his good arm.

"Easy, easy.  I hope you're right.  Maybe she can hear us.  Well, I'm going to head up, maybe get a little sleep."

"You should go hobe instead," Runner shook his head.  "Tibby and Teema got your room all cleerd out—get out of the hosbiddle for a while."

"You know me, sport," Devin chuckled wistfully, shaking his head.  "Work, work, work."

Gadget opened her eyes but couldn't move.  A dull bloom of bone-deep ache had taken up residence all down her side, and zigzagged off into different directions when it reached her stomach.  Her first coherent thought was, _Thank God, I'm alive. _ She was certain that terrible spiking sensation, and the blackness that followed, were the period at the end of her sentence.  The story, blessedly, seemed to pick back up where it left off, but she was fuzzy on the details.

This much she knew as she stared up at the acoustic-tiled ceiling: she was in a hospital, surrounded by whirring and wheezing machines, and one of them was breathing for her.  Flicking her eyes to the side she saw the black shape of the respirator bellows, moving like an accordion trapped in a glass jar.  A breathing tube snaked between her lips and her throat; it felt like it'd been there for a long time.  Her chest rose and fell with no effort on her part, and she quickly decided not to try breathing against the ceaseless rhythm the machine forced on her.  Outside the reinforced window, nurses and doctors flitted by on their rounds, not looking in her direction because none of them expected her to look back.  She darted her eyes around the white room with its I.V. stands and crash cart, but they came to rest on her most hoped-for of sights.

Devin was sprawled out in a chair at the foot of her bed, with his foot paws propped up on the foot board.  Gadget's medical chart was open on his lap, a pen dangling loosely in one paw as he snored, looking scruffy in clothes left unchanged for too long.  His lab coat—the old grungy normal one, not the one made out of Turner's miracle fabric—had become even more stained and frazzled.   Devin stirred in his sleep, brushing his whiskers before settling back in.  _I must still be in awfully rough shape,_ she thought.  _Sure, the chart's upside down, but it's got more ups and downs than the Swiss __Alps__…_

_Oh, but if I'm this bad off, what about the baby? Please, God!_

Gadget tried to speak around the blue plastic tube, but only managed a low wet gurgle.  _Okay,_ she started an inventory of herself, _is there anything I can move?_ Arms, legs--nope.  The connections were all still there but she was too terribly weak--or just plain stiff--to do much more than twitch them.  They were coming back, but only slowly.  Her tail, though pinned halfway under her body, responded to her request for action, with a sleepy sideways flop.  _Maybe if I can reach the call button--_she snaked her tail down alongside the bed and fumbled it across the switchplate there.  A light went on by the door, blinking in its metal grille.  A faint, far off buzzer sounded, and clicking heels announced the approach of a nurse from down the hall.

"Dr. Packard?" The nurse stuck her head into the room.  Devin startled and sent the medical chart crashing to the floor.  Gadget rolled her eyes wildly, trying to attract attention.  "Sorry.  Did you ring the call bell, Doctor?"

"Not me," Devin yawned, and bent to pick up the chart.  As he did, he saw Gadget's tail hanging over the side of her bed.  He straightened suddenly and locked his eyes on hers.

_Thank God,_ she blinked in relief.

"Gadget? Gadget! You're awake!" Devin beamed.  He spun to face the nurse.  "Get the attending!"

"Right now, that's you," the nurse reminded him.

Devin pounded his forehead.  "Then get me someone with respiratory therapy.  Anybody.  Just get me backup!"

Devin sprinted to the head of Gadget's bed, putting a paw under her chin and falling to his knees beside her.  "Gadget, can you hear me?" She tilted her head for yes, feeling the breathing tube pull at her.  "Do you think you can breathe without the machine now?"

_Hell, yes,_ she tilted again. 

Devin slapped a few switches and unhooked the long hose from its attachment to her mouth tube.  The respirator fell silent, but Gadget's breath whistled strongly through the tube left in her throat.  "Okay, now this is going to feel weird--when I tell you, breathe out.  "Gadget nodded more freely now, but Devin put a gently restraining paw to her forehead.  He grasped the end of her mouth tube with his other paw.  "Okay.  One, two, now."

With that, he carefully drew the tube out.  She pushed forward and the tube came free with a whoosh of her breath.  She coughed, grimacing at fresh pain in her chest which luckily went away as soon as Devin set her head back in its place on the pillow.

"Graakk," she croaked.

"Try some water in a second," Devin suggested, and she nodded once more.  He filled the cup with water from a jug on her bedside table and tipped it to her lips.  "Is that better?"

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Dev," she hoarsely voiced her gratitude as he drew the cup away.  "I thought was dead for sure."

"Not if I have anything to say about it, sweetheart." Devin checked her pulse and began massaging her sore arms.  "Been trying to keep your muscle tone up a little."

"How long?" Gadget felt like a time-traveler with a one-way ticket.

"Over a week, Gadge.  You had us all worried."

"The baby, Dev, is the baby all right?"

Devin grinned proudly.  "It was a close thing, but she's a fighter, just like her mother."

"I have a daughter? " Gadget whispered in wonder.  "Oh, thank God, and thank you, Devin.  You saved her! "

Devin stuck his paws in his lab coat and shuffled his footpaws in an aww-shucks sort of way.  "Well, I had little help.  You know, your father could've made one hell of a surgeon himself.  We kept you alive—you kept your daughter alive.  You fought."

"I'll pat myself on the back later," she promised.  "Right now, though," as weak as she was she reached out, arms heavy as lead, her paws seeking, "my daughter.  Let me see her.  Please. "

Devin gently pushed her paws back down onto the coverlet.  "Are you okay if I leave you alone for a second? We moved you close to the nursery, so if--" he winced at the thought, "--so when you woke up--"

"I'll be fine just as long as you come back packing a papoose," she reassured him.

"Can do," he said, standing up and bounding out of the room.

Gadget grinned wearily.  _I've got a daughter!  Wow!  A baby goose is a gosling, a little bear is a cub, but what the hey is a baby half-mouse called?  Never mind—whatever she's called, she's going to grow up with the coolest damn toys on Earth.  I get to hear her call me Mama for the first time, watch her take her first steps, help her put together her first internal combustion engine..._

She drifted off for a minute, but a cranky voice and the clatter of a collision in the hallway outside her room shook her out of her daze.

"Ack!  Watch where you point that thing!"  came Timmy's voice.

"Communications breakdown, 's always the same," groused Dennis.  "Wot, we got ta put tairn signals on your blinkin' behind, now?"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," cautioned Bianca, as Dennis wedged Bernard through the door in a wheelchair.

"Remember who you're talking to," Tina pointed out, holding the door open wider.  Just behind came Timothy, who had traded his own chair for a pair of arm-brace crutches.

"Jeez, Timothy," Gadget greeted him.  "You look like one of those land-striders from The Dark Crystal."

Timothy did a quick 360-degree turn on his crutches.  "Want to give it a try, little miss 'staying-conscious-is-too-much-trouble'?"

"Good to see you too," Gadget huffed.  "Word must spread quick—"

"Devin's shouting it to the mountaintops," nodded Bernard.  "I think everybody must know by now."

A confused-looking respiratory therapist leaned into the doorway, paws full of equipment.  "Hey, only two visitors at a time," she warned.

"Oh, put a sock in it," Gadget called from the bed.  The therapist shrugged and retreated, to the laughter of all assembled.

"You gave us a terrible fright, darling!" cooed Bianca.  "Try to stay away from exploding machines for a while, all right?"

"No can do," Gadget shook her head.  "I'm kind of a mad scientist, remember?  It's in the job description."

"_Inventor,_" Geegaw corrected her, feeling his way into the room as Runner held his paw.   He wore a wraparound pair of dark sunglasses, but tilted them down over his nose and squinted in her direction.  "How's my favorite blur doing today?"

"Daddy?  Oh, daddy, I'm so glad to see you," Gadget reached out for him.  The others cleared a path as he picked his way to her bedside and carefully felt around for her headfur, patting her face to get its shape back into his memory.  He picked up one of her paws and gave it a whiskery kiss, tears leaking from under the sunglasses.

"Tha' tugs at the heartstrings, it does," Dennis pulled a plaid hankerchief out of one pocket and blew into it.

"Can't see you too well, yet," choked Geegaw.  "Good to hear and feel you moving around, though."

"You were so brave, Papa, you and Devin—thank you for saving me up there—"

"All my work comes with a lifetime warranty," Geegaw promised, "but if you need any more service or repairs I think I'll leave that to Devin."

Runner mock-impatiently tapped a footpaw, crossing his arms.  "Whassa squirrel got to do to get a hug aroud here?"

"Get within reach, silly," Gadget waved him over.  He gingerly leaned in—she wrapped her arm around him and he gave her a peck on the cheek.  She rubbed the spot and clicked her tongue.  "Well, small fry, aren't you frisky?  You're lucky Devin's stepped out for a—"

Someone knocked at the door.  Flanked by Elizabeth and Justin, Devin stood there, beaming and cradling a small blanket-wrapped bundle.

"Ran into a few people," Devin started, taking in the scene.

"A few more people, he means," chuckled Justin.

"Give her here, Devin, give her here," cried Gadget.

"Easy, easy," shushed Devin, brushing toward her hospital bed with all the grace of a Steadicam operator.  He nestled the precious cargo against Gadget, and she touched her daughter's tiny whiskers in open-mouthed wonder.

"She's beautiful, Dev—just look at her!"  _Oh, her chubby little paws, her—stripes? And those two little front teeth--  "_Huh—that's strange—"

"What's that, sweetheart?" Devin cocked his head and leaned in for a closer look at mother and daughter.

"I have the strangest feeling I've seen those teeth before," she wrapped her paw around her daughter's much smaller one—a strip of bright floral fabric was clutched tightly in it.

"I don't recommend trying to take that away from her," warned Devin.  "She wouldn't stop crying for the longest time, but she latched onto that, pulled it right out of your hair, and she's been right as rain ever since."

"That—that was Dale's!"

"So is she," Devin grinned.  "She's half chipmunk, we've checked."

Gadget gasped.  "Don't you play with me, Devin—"

"I swear," Devin put his paw over his heart.  "Rescue Aid had a DNA sample for Dale in some of the files that survived.  I'd tell you why, but you'd laugh and pull your stitches."

"Oh, I love you, Dev—not just for that, but it helps—" Gadget sighed, extremely relieved.  "You," she told her daughter as she wrinkled up her little nose, "are going to have a complete lack of fashion sense, just like your father."

"I'll say.  His shirts were so loud we thought about renting him out as a lighthouse," Bernard murmured, earning an elbow in the ribs from Bianca.

"What to call her, what to call her," Gadget tapped one pawpad on her chin.

Runner shuffled his feet guiltily.  "Debbin?  You wanna tell her?"

"Tell me what?" Gadget looked up suspiciously.

Devin winced.  "Well, we couldn't keep calling her 'Baby Hackwrench'," he started.

"Tried keeping up with tradition," Geegaw grunted.  "My father was Doodad, I'm Geegaw, you're Gadget… for this new addition we tried out Connie, short for contraption… no good."

"Gem, short for Gimcrack, that was in the running," remembered Bernard.

"Just say no to 'crack'," Gadget narrowed her eyes at him.  "Can you imagine the trouble she'd have at school?"

"I voted for Maggie, short for 'thingamajig'", laughed Elizabeth.

Gadget growled.  "Enough is enough.  Come on, out with it, you furry fiends, what have you been calling my daughter?"

"Hilly!" Runner stuck out his chest proudly.

"Runner came up with that one," Devin explained.  "And it stuck pretty well."

"It's not bad," mused Gadget.  "How'd you come up with it, Runner?"

"Hilly, because a hill is what comes after a Dale!" Runner's whiskers twitched hopefully.

"Hilly Hackwrench," Gadget breathed, trying out the right-sounding name as Devin squeezed her paw.  All her friends (and a little bit of family) drew in closer for a better look at her daughter. 

"I love you, little Hilly," she said.

THE END

Button images by Keith Elder


End file.

Cartoon X-overs, Adventure, Drama