A Second Generation Whateley Holiday Tale

Best of Show

by

Wasamon

 

Part Four

 

Monday, Dec. 26th, 2016, i.e. Boxing Day, early morning
John Carlyle

He had no one but himself to tell him not to drive like a maniac on the admittedly maniacal Karedonian highway, and for once he listened. The decent green Gizmobile handled like a dream, as always, and he could have taken it well past the safe speed suggestions, but he stayed mindful of his passenger in the back that morning. Upon their arrival at the convention hall's back end, Cookie made scarcely a whimper as they disembarked.

He patted the side of one columnar neck. "Good pup," he murmured.

Pup woofed softly back, as if to say, "Good driver," in reply.

"Howdy, y'all!" Lady Bova was the most morningest of people, and by her beaming smile, John Carlyle felt more like a morning person, himself. She was as short as ever, but her high-heeled elevator shoes were making a valiant effort, regardless. "How y'all doing today... oops, missing one, are we?"

"Daniel needed a little extra time this morning," he told her. "It was a long and eventful Christmas Day."

The Marchioness Zoologica giggled at that. "No doubt. Roxie and OB-17 arrived twenty minutes back, and I swear that girl's learned how to levitate from sheer joy. Ain't hardly seen anything like it. Daniel knows to be here and in position by 10, right?"

"So I have told him," John confirmed. "He shall be escorting my wife and our friend Debbie into the convention hall from the monorail line. Ah..." He glanced skyward to where the silver-grey circuit of the rails passed. "The protestors are not..."

"They're behaving themselves," Lady Bova told him. "Both groups, even if they ain't happy about any of it. Got a live feed from Angie--that's Lady Freight Train--at the front. They're annoying as all hell, but they're staying within the limits of their visa permits. Will let you know if anything about it changes."

"Many thanks," he told her. "Shall we?"

"Yup! Right, so Cookie's the last of this size division to arrive. The other half of 'em haven't been outside since they got here," she confided, "or got the permits to let 'em leave the menagerie or convention center complex, so bein' the last one in's not that big a deal." The drow spun around on one high heel and waved her hand in a circular motion. "Come along."

The menagerie back end was far less lively today, what with most critters now moved to their temporary exhibits out front. The empty cages and enclosures hammered home how expansive the para-zoological park was intended to be, once Her Highness's Zoological Service was through building it. There were a lot of orphaned critters out in the world, cast off when their creators either got bored or got dead, and he was relieved that, of all the things he had done in his old life, he still had the chance to do something good by his 'children' with what time he had left.

His best child kept a slow pace beside him. One head nuzzled his shoulder, like it sensed his melancholy. Quite likely it did; that empathic sense had been an inspired trait to include.

"So, tell me, how'd it go with Roxie?" asked the lady as they walked along. "In your opinion? We all worry 'bout her, growin' up with us all as role-models."

"She is a wonderful young lady," said John. "And I fear that if you were to try and pry her away from Daniel at this point, you would need the world's largest crowbar. They're quite stuck on one another."

"Good!"

Row after empty row passed by, with only food scraps or scratch marks to show they'd been recently inhabited. His own fearsome critters were nowhere to be seen, and even if they were his 'children,' he could feel relief. With the exception of Cookie, the creations of Doc Talltale had all favored their maker's less sane side. John was determined never to let that side of him, that persona born of encroaching dementia and the old madman's laugh, to ever resurface.

One of Daniel's snozzberry tarts rested comfortably in his stomach. That made him worry less.

Up the lift they went, and things became livelier. Unlike the menagerie back end, the convention center was filled with a week's worth of business crammed into one hour of available time. People were running this way and that, often towards and at other times frantically away from the creatures in their care. Anything with a regular feeding schedule got its treats right now, and everything else got treats as well, if they wanted. Lady Bova greeted members of the Zoological Service staff as they passed through, checking the status of one thing or another but otherwise leaving well enough alone.

Back behind a heavy curtain and through a door, down a corridor and up a ramp, and they were at the edge of a larger auditorium. Presumably it could be used for sporting events like the ones Karedonia fully lacked. Mobile platforms drifted back and forth across its length as the technical crews practiced the choreography of presentation. In the middle of the court and along the back wall, a sort of dais was set up, with seven seats along the base, three more on the next level up, and then a UFO-looking thing along the very top that he recognized from old news footage as one of Gizmatic's security capsules.

"Their Highnesses sit up top," Lady Bova confirmed. "Standard security measure, much as Jobe Ann loves to whinge. And at the bottom is the judges' station. In the middle, the Duchess Sec-Intel gets her seat with the Minister of the Interior and the Minister Botanica. The three of 'em get to vote in case of a tie, if necessary. Her Highness sits at the top, lookin' down on her nose at everyone, as usual."

As previously noted, he and Cookie were the last of their division to arrive at the waiting zone. Many other men and women in the traditional labcoats of Karedonian high fashion were there, directing assistants as to the care of their charges large and small. For the mid-megafauna weight class, there were two men he'd been looking forward to meeting in the flesh for some time now.

"Dr. Bullinsky, Dr. Tanishi," said Lady Bova. "I believe you know Dr. Carlyle and his entry, Cookie?"

Dr. Tanishi was a long-faced Japanese gentleman with short-cropped hair. "Hajimemashité. It is good to finally see your face, John."

"And yours as well, Ippei. I regret not being able to visit you in Kochi, but alas," he said with a resigned shrug. "My poor reputation precedes me, whereas news of my recovery continues to lag behind."

"Tried to turn your state governor into a rat, didn't you?" That was Dr. Bullinsky, a florid gentleman with a broad face framed by a bronze hexagon of hair: goatee, muttonchops, parts to either side of his forehead, and a widow's peak that somehow worked in reverse.

"It was a marmot," he admitted. "And I only ever said it as a joke. By the time my mental health impinged on things, the man was long since departed from this world. So I did other things with my time." He patted Cookie on the side of the neck column. Pup had been sitting there at heel this entire time.

"A handsome specimen, yes," said Dr. Tanishi as he looked pup up and down. "Your photos did not do it justice. Ah, may I?" the man asked, pointing to pup's front left foot.

With a woof, Cookie obliged, lifting the paw to display its pads and claws.

"Yes, excellent work in sizing up to account for the increase in musculature. And the way it responds directly to requests, ah..."

"Pat it on the head and say, 'Good pup'," John provided.

"Ah, hai. Good pup."

"Woof!"

"And where are your charges?" he asked the other bio-devisors.

Dr. Bullinsky thumbed at a stall a few meters away. Several men and women in matching field outfits were tending to the thing within. The sides of the stall were tall and thin, and they shook slightly as the thing moved. "Wilbur's resting up. He's a dear, but he spooks easily. This helps him acclimate, as it were, to the ambient noise."

"As for my Den-Den," said Dr. Tanishi, "I fear she has had issues acclimating to the actual climate here. I have requested a special dispensation, and Her Highness was kind enough to oblige. I will be presenting her by tele-projection."

"Good thing it isn't really a competition, now is it?" said Bullinsky.

"Her Highness does seem to enjoy show-and-tell," John agreed. "And I see our fourth contestant is approaching. Roxie!" he called to the girl as she led her charge over. "Good morning."

"Woof!" Cookie's tail was up and wagging as pup greeted Crumpette with mutual head nods and a "Ghu-hu" in reply.

"Good morning, Dr. Carlyle." The owlbear wrangler was in uniform as a member of the Royal Karedonian Zoological Service, which was to say she was wearing a form-fitting labcoat, pale blue trimmed with purple. Various tags and insignia were clipped to her front pocket, and her silver-white hair was crowned by a freshly pressed garrison cap. She looked quite the little professional. "And good morning to you as well, Dr. Bullinsky, Dr. Tanishi. Ah, where is Daniel?"

"Who?" asked Bullinsky.

"My assistant," John informed. "Cookie's regular handler. He's helping my wife and her attendant get here first. He'll be along soon."

The girl's smile was unprofessionally radiant when she heard that.

The Imperial Waiting Room

One of the perks of a self-made monarchy was that the monarch held all the power to make decisions on tradition without having the gravity or inertia of past generations getting in the way. Belphoebe had to hand it to her grandfather-in-theory there. The old maniac had at least understood the need for interesting cultural quirks and traditions, but had been smart enough to delegate some elements to the professionals, rather than relying on the whims of fate and last-minute why-not? decisions.

Like the standards for courtly dress. Replacing suit-and-tie or flouncy dresses for the form and utility of a labcoat had been a practical matter for a ruler found most often in his laboratory, but His Majesty's decision to hire a disaffected young fashion designer in the 80s to provide the style had been nothing short of inspired. Belphoebe's own coat was double-breasted and trimmed with gold, as befit her stations. Her Highness's was nacreous white to frame her drow-black skin, with shelled epaulets and even more gold on the buttons and trim. An old-fashioned, stylized wire model of the uranium-235 atom was emblazoned over the left breast, as His Majesty had decided long before. They'd yet to find anything better to replace it with, and so it remained. The tiara of shaped obsidian with cultured star sapphires was a more recent addition that shone darkly in the royal silver.

"That does look good on you," she opined.

"Hmph." Her Highness fidgeted with the angle but did not disagree.

"He really outdid himself with that," she continued, as no more response was forthcoming. "And the way he presented it at the Christmas Ball last night. Someone on his team's been coaching him well."

"...perhaps," Jobe Ann was willing to admit.

"Ah, but I still believe that you were the one to prevail. Did you see how his eyes lit up when you made your entrance in that gown of yours?"

"...yes."

"Though he looked quite fine in that new suit... Is anything the matter, parent dear?"

"Nothing," lied the princess. The fidgety-fudgety adjustments continued.

"Will you be attending the robot battle brawl this evening, then?"

"Only if he comes to the kennel show!" Jobe Ann snapped. Then, in a low-toned, private sigh, "...and he probably won't."

It was in Belphoebe's estimation that they were reaching a limit, but she decided to push it, anyway. "I saw the overnight preliminaries on Roxie's bloodwork analysis."

"What of it?"

"The early results would appear to support Schloss and Pinder's model of drow psychosexuality and hormonal interactions."

"Hmph. I could've told them as much."

Except that the first drow, the progenitor of their odd new species, wouldn't tell anyone anything, and quite possibly couldn't admit to anything, even to herself. In truth, Jobe Ann Wilkins was simply too close to the subject matter in every conceivable way to accept the parts which, in the parlance of the youth these days, squicked her the fuck out.

"Be that as it may, parent dearest, you need to talk some things out. With Drs. Schloss or Pinder, if not His Highness. It really will help, and I speak as someone who began her existence in a demonstrably more fucked up state than your own."

That elicited a horsey laugh from Her Highness. "Damnit, Belphy. When you of all people are the poster child for reason and sanity..." A heavy sigh broke off the rest of the sentence. "I... I guess I should give it a try. No promises!"

"I wouldn't ask for any. Now, chin up. We've a show to enjoy."

"Yes... yes," declared Her Highness, and the mantle of attitude settled like a metaphorical cape around her. "That we do. Let us to it, then."

Daniel

He'd slept like the dead last night--the loving dead, what were waiting for the Second Coming. Between the emotions, the running around, the baking, the kissing--oh! the kissing--it was a wonder he woke up at all that morning.

But he had a job to do for the doc, and a promise to Roxie for later. There was some court event that evening that normally she wouldn't go to because she had no one to go with, unless he'd like to come as her plus-one? And of course he'd love to, and he told her as much before one last round of kisses marked her departure for the evening. It was only in the morning that, less drunk on kisses, he realized he didn't have anything nicer to wear than his school uniform. He hoped that'd be good enough. The outfit looked nice even right out of the washer-dryer machine. The tags all said "100% Whateley", so wrinkle-proof and stain-proof were the least he could expect.

He spent the early morning in the shower, shaving as carefully as he could in front of the mirror and borrowing some of the doc's hair cream to get himself just as presentable as the outfit.

"You look great," Miz Debbie assured him. "Dapper and smart."

"And ever the young gentleman," Miz Cordelia agreed. The three of them were on the monorail now, boarding from the nearest beach station side-track and transferring to the main line without any trouble. The inside track, counter-clockwise, hit only the main stations, and the convention center was one of those. It was a nice, quiet trip into town, a chance to stretch the legs and chat about things besides Roxie and him--though he could tell the ladies were sore tempted. He appreciated their holding it all back. There was still too much he needed to figure out with his girlfriend, first.

And, as they arrived at the convention center station with its platform plaza high above the utilitarian city streets, they had more immediate stuff to worry about.

"What is going on over there?" Miz Debbie pointed across the wide plaza to the convention center entrance. "Is there something else happening today?"

Daniel wished he didn't know the answer as to why so many people were out there waving signs and chanting slogans. "That'd be, um, HAET'M," he explained. "Humans Against the Ethical Treatment of Monsters. They're the Reverend's sorta people."

"Oh, dear," said his guardian as she peered across the way. "That would explain some of the signage. What about the other group?"

"Hm?" Daniel took a gander, himself. The HAET'M folks all seemed to be on one side, while on the other, some other group was shouting other stuff. "Dunno, actually. Guess we'll find out?"

"There is rather a lot of them," said Miz Cordelia. "Is it safe to go in?"

His eyes searched the edges of the plaza, taking in the crowd at the far end, the market stalls forming an aisle straight up the middle, and various discrete uniforms hanging around throughout. "Seein' lots 'a Karedonian Security, I think. And police droids. From what Roxie told me, HAET'M's all bark and no bite."

"Too bad Cookie's not here to teach them the other way around." Miz Cordelia chuckled. "So, shall we go in?"

The front plaza was maybe half a football field, and to either side of the aisle leading to the entrance, a miniature town of stalls and food carts had popped up to offer meals, supplies, and souvenirs to the tourists passing by. It reminded Daniel of the Christmas Eve market, and he wasn't surprised none to see a few familiar faces manning the till. He waved to a gaggle of old grannies--still couldn't tell 'em apart--and they giggled back. The shopkeeper Reynaldo greeted him with a big hug that might've left a mark if it lasted any longer, then a wave around to introduce the rest of the man's family, who were running a boxed lunch cart.

"So... ¿Amigo, o novio?" the shopkeeper teased.

A quick check through online dictionaries the night before meant he actually knew the answer to that: "Novio," he confirmed.

"El novio de la doñita!" This was met with more laughter and smiles. Daniel and the ladies moved on a moment later, after purchasing some pulled pork sandwiches, fried plantains, and a boxed salad, with a handful of sapote fruit para la yapa.

"Still making friends wherever you go," Miz Debbie noted.

On his arm as she walked, Miz Cordelia chuckled. "There are worse superpowers to have."

"Ain't that special..."

"Yes, you are," both ladies stated firmly.

Right before the entrance, there was the gantlet. Or maybe it was the gauntlet. Miz Barnes had made some joke about the two words that Daniel only half-remembered, and now he couldn't recall which was which. There was fencing to keep people in a long, snakey line as they filed into the convention center, and much sturdier barriers along the sides to keep the protestors comfortably separate both from the guests and from the other protestors. Big red-and-white signs on one side declared the area around it to be a 'Hate Speech Zone', while its opposite number on the other side in green and black read 'Toxic Ontology Warning'. None of the protestors seemed to want to be seen too close to the things.

Didn't matter, really; the haters didn't need an official sign to tell the world who they were. They brought their own.

"Monster lovers!" "Freakshows!" The first round of shouting wasn't very original, and Daniel wasn't sure how much of it was aimed at the convention visitors and how much at the other group, who were waving green flags and shouting "Free the Ogress!", "All Love for Our Hyacinth!", or "Embrace Verdantly!"

A couple of HAET'M folks had a mike and sound system out, and they were attempting to beatbox and rap their message to the world. Daniel recognized attempts at a few of the Christian rap tracks that'd been deemed marginally acceptable by the Reverend's community in Idaho, sung now karaoke-style. Lyrics like ♫ God made me pure / My people will endure♬ hit harder when you knew you and your friends weren't included. He did his best to ignore the words and enjoy the beats as they were.

That didn't work, either. He had friends who were lots better at beatboxing and lyrics.

"I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony～♬," crooned Miz Cordelia in low notes for just the three of them.

"I'd settle for teaching them the basics of do-re-mi," grumbled Miz Debbie. "I get enough of that crap on the radio back home!" she continued in a louder voice to the would-be musicians. "Learn something local, with metal drums or something. Dare to have a flavor. White-bread wimps!"

"Monster-loving whore!"

The baker's only response was a single raised finger.

"Oh, don't antagonize them," said Miz Cordelia. "It's what they want, to feel like they're being persecuted."

"Yes, well, politeness rarely gets you anywhere with bigoted creeps who've already set their minds in horse puckey." Miz Debbie said it casually but at full enough volume to be heard by all around. When they got to the ticket counter, the locals managing it were all smiles and nods and covered winks. The ladies had their convention passes ready, while Daniel simply presented his visa dongle for scanning before being granted entry.

The first section of the show was all glass panels and terrariums or aquariums, with informative panels to explain what each specimen was and why you'd never see them in a regular zoo. Some were pretty simple, like attempts to de-extinctify ancient frog species, while others like the jewel butterflies were simply pretty. A couple had bio-hazard signage, along with reassurances that all glass displays were safely sealed from public access.

"Debbie! Cody!" Miz Madrigal was in her Ministry of Tourism uniform that day, the open formal labcoat over a deep blue pantsuit. "The ticket counter pinged me when you came through," she told them. "Show starts at half-past 11. I can show Debbie and Cody around till then."

Miz Debbie chuckled. "The lady says, in her capacity as tourism ministry agent and occasional cultural envoy." That had the sound of an inside joke to it, though he clearly hadn't been there to hear the original conversation sometime the other day.

The lady herself laughed along. "Perhaps guilty as charged, or perhaps I just want to enjoy the morning with friends. But you..." One bright red-painted nail pointed his way. "You need to get yourself backstage and be at the staging area in twenty minutes. Access door A-22, over on the right. Put your visa dongle to the doorplate to open it. Don't keep my daughter waiting, hm?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." After a hug from his legal guardian and his sorta-grandma--and one from Miz Madrigal, to his surprise--he dashed off in the direction the lady'd indicated. The side doors were all clearly labeled, and he had no trouble finding A-22.

He didn't need to knock or do anything with his visa; it opened right as he stepped over, and Roxie's face peeked out to find him. The way her expression went from worry to pure joy as they spotted one another, it sent warm, happy tingles all through him. She grabbed him by the hand, leading him into the back area corridor that must've connected to the prep rooms and staging areas, only they didn't get five steps before she pulled him in and they twirled into the nook of another doorway. His arms were around her waist and hers were around his shoulders and their lips were drinking thirstily into a kiss.

"Hah..." he sighed once they stopped to breathe. "Good to know I wasn't just dreamin' this last night."

"Oh, you had a dream about me?" his girlfriend teased.

"If I did, I was too exhausted by reality to remember," Daniel admitted. He smacked his lips thoughtfully and rolled his tongue in his mouth. "Did you have almond milk with breakfast? Gettin' a hint of it here."

"No..." Roxie's hand went to her own mouth. "I don't know why you'd... oh. Oh. I, um, should ask my mother about that."

"Drow stuff?" he guessed.

"Maybe? I... er, fewmets," she swore as something beeped from her pocket. "We have to get you to the staging area. No time to... ah." She shivered in his arms.

It was with great reluctance that he gave up the thought of more kisses right then. They didn't have the time now, but they would later. So much time later. All the time in the world later. But for now, "I like your outfit. Lookin' sharp."

"It's the only way I can look," she joked. "Is that your Whateley uniform?"

"Yeah. It's the only thing I got that looks nice enough. How do I look?"

"Hm..." She rested a hand on his chest and gazed up with faintly gleaming blue eyes. "Perfect..." she said breathlessly.

Now. The time for that kiss was now, and to hell with all else. Lips met, tongues danced, hands wandered and held.

Beeper did its thing again. With an embarrassed giggle, they broke off the kiss, but they held hands the entire way back to the staging area.

Cordelia Carlyle

It had been fifty years since she first chased a much younger John Carlyle into a life of adventure and oddity, and Cordelia Carlyle née Ames held no regrets. Not that she hadn't had any in her time, but she'd found it best to let them go after a while. Life was too short, even though she'd lived long. And she never regretted chasing John, no matter where it led her.

And so she let Roxie's mother lead her and Debbie around a world of pure imagination made real. For well or for ill, she couldn't necessarily say. The hall of terrariums and aquariums had been safe enough, with their inhabitants all firmly kept within their boxes, but the biome exhibits were much more open, like a zoo with force-field enclosures, realistically fake trees, and robotic surveillance. She could see why John loved working with the Ministry of Zoology here, and if she could never match his enthusiasm, she could at least admire it all.

Debbie and Madrigal were chatting about something. Possibly involving the children, possibly not. Cordelia was fine with leaving it at that. The nursing assistant could use more friends her own age.

Their chosen walking route wended its way through a desert biome, where owls like living clockwork hooted atop diamond-tipped cacti under a simulated full-moon night sky. and tumbleweeds rolled without wind. A boardwalk extended over the dunes until it reached the shore of a simulated sea, and they could watch the eusocial crabstructors building monuments in the sand. Overhead, birds flapped--or at least, they were bird-shaped. She recalled the wyverns at the airport when they arrived.

Towards the illusion of a horizon, they walked the boards over a swamp of mud and grasses and choruses of giant frogs. Mudpuppies the size of small hounds frolicked, and dragonflies to rival pigeons caught bumbling bugs on the wing. The faint gleam of the force fields added a magical air to it all.

The grassland biome used optical tricks and holographic projections to turn a small corral into an infinite space of golden waves. In the center of this little universe, there were the ugliest cattle she'd ever seen: lumpy, misshapen things with odd growths dangling from flaps of skin, or else small circlets of scar tissue where the growths were removed. "The last of the tumor cows," Madrigal explained. "One of Her Highness's earlier projects. The growths can be harvested without harm to the cow, so in theory they're a boon for countries suffering food crises."

"And in practice?" asked Debbie.

"They're ugly as sin and don't taste even that nice. The UN representatives all voted to censure the things, including the princess's Uncle Ralph. He's a butcher and deli owner by trade, and considered the things an insult to good food. So they were all destroyed except for this last herd. Her Highness couldn't bring herself to get rid of them."

"That hardly seems fair to the poor things," said Cordelia.

"Yeah, and in all honesty, Her Highness is still kind of salty about it. Though I'll also note that, ah..." The drow winced as a short concert of flatulence conducted itself loudly in the corral. "Her Highness has paid more attention to the aesthetics of a project since that debacle."

From her spot at their guide's side, Debbie let out a chuckle. "She certainly has. Crumpette's a cutie. Oh, how long till the show starts, by the way?"

"We've still got at least half an hour before we need to think about finding our seats," Madrigal told them. "Moving along..."

There was a door which, due to the various optical illusions, appeared to be standing alone in a field rather than set into a wall that was only apparent as they walked to it. Beyond it was a sort of airlock with floor mats to shuffle their feet upon, and then they were out of the illusory grassland and... home. The temperature, the lighting, the air pressure, everything was a match to a summer in the Middle Rockies. Behind them now, the airlock door appeared to be set in the trunk of a large tree, while mountain vistas graced the false distance.

"This is where they're keeping John's fearsome critters, isn't it." Her eyes scanned the forest of fake trees, seeking the oddities she knew were there. It was likely she could name every single species, or perhaps better to say that she had in fact named them, in the stories she'd collected over the years and read to John for their amusement. Way back when, not long after they'd first met, she'd introduced her future husband to the tall tales of the mountains, to the critters born of fabulation, boredom, and amateur taxidermy to dupe gullible tourists or reporters. Occasionally he'd made one for her, as a personal joke for them to share.

It had not been so funny when his mind reached its twilight years, however, and what she saw here was the result of that awful time.

Overhead, safely kept above a shimmering force field net, the squirrelly conkerdinks chittered and swooped between trees on their absailing flaps. As she watched, one missed its mark, hitting the tree with its helmet-like skull and dropping to the ground in a daze.

On the other side of a water barrier, the rubberados bounced happily. The inflated porcupines would likely float on the surface if they tried, but the fussy things had never been ones for getting their feet wet. The ground below them was littered with quills like pine needles.

Higher above, on rocks warmed by sun lamps, the last known pair of hoop snakes rested. For the moment, the well-rounded reptiles looked practically normal.

But it was what paced around the next exhibit that made her hesitate. The dozen or so survivors of the jackalope pack were already agitated, and seeing her friendly face made them the complete opposite. They gathered in one corner of their enclosure, forming ranks and greeting the ladies with a group snarl. Of all the fearsome critters, they had kept the strongest connection to the old Doc Talltale, and she feared nothing would ever change that.

"What of the splinterkitten?" she asked as they moved on. "John told me there was one left."

"I believe they're keeping it out of the way for now," said Madrigal. "In its own little space around the slope. Poor thing's not been adapting well, so I hear. Shall we go see?"

When they found the splinterkitten in its little area, the bundle of scruff and fluff could be seen wedged in a corner. Ears and eyes peeked over the protection of its brushy tail, only to hide back down when it realized they could see it. Cordelia felt a pang of sympathy for the poor thing, even though she knew full well what it was and what it could do when fully grown. Whether she liked them or not, whether they liked her or not, she'd brought the inspiration which sparked their existence, and she could afford to spare some maternal feeling in her old age. More so for Cookie, dear pup, than the other critters, but feel it she did.

She'd hardly paid attention to the other visitors, tourists, and guests moving past, but they barely spared her a glance, either. But here and now, with her husband's creations on proud display, she was perhaps more sensitive to negative vibes, to reactions of fear or disgust towards her wicked little step-children of the imagination.

One man in particular, a middle-aged fellow in an unseasonable business jacket, was broadcasting his bad mood like an AM radio station. He glared at the jackalopes in their enclosure, only to flinch as they glared back with an extra snarl. His camera came out and snapped a few photos before he moved on.

"What a wet blanket," Debbie commented, once the man was out of earshot. "I mean, I know these things aren't exactly cute or cuddly, but they're still weirdly interesting. Who does he think he is?"

"A reporter," suggested Madrigal. "Or a spy, on an assignment he doesn't like. Either way, he'll be registered on his visa, else they wouldn't let him through the front. I wonder what they're paying him..." she mused, with the tone of someone considering a counter-offer.

Cordelia shook her head. "Not worth it. If he can't appreciate the wonders then that's his loss. Now, I know we have a little more time left, but I fear my old bones do not. Shall we find those seats?"

With one last wave at the beasties, answered with one final snarl from them, the ladies made their leave. Seeing her husband's handiwork, the children born of their shared imagination, had been enlightening. Cordelia felt herself letting go of a few more regrets.

The worries, she held on to for a while longer.

The view from the top

There were better seats in the house, but few finer than right below the royal capsule. Belphoebe was not by temperament a devisor who worked with biologicals. Too messy and wet, even at the best of times, while at the worst... the very thought and memory made her gag. Life with her accidental parent had left her with no illusions or romanticism vis-à-vis the organic sciences. Still, she could understand those for whom it was their milieu, and she knew that not one of the devisors down on the convention floor would trade places with her in her seat high upon the official dais.

She wished someone would. There were some adorable little abominations out there she would love to hug and cuddle.

But no, poor she need sit in her place, one step below Her Highness and an empty chair, as they watched the opening parade of the Royal Biotechnology and Abominations World Kennel Club Association and its main show. A more normal sort of dog-bothering society might have all the participants getting their walkies in before the big event, but out of consideration for how extraordinarily bad an idea that would be for this specific organization, it was rather a parade of the myriad new folk which Her Highness had helped bring forth into the world. That the majority were volunteers in their transformations still astounded Belphoebe, but certain jobs had certain standards more easily met by subtle adjustments, and somehow those adjustments themselves had gained social cachet on an island long resigned to the foibles of the enlightened sciences.

And so a cadre of orcs led the way, the laborers of the mines made over into stronger, more rugged forms. Their original formulation had been a crime against humanity, perpetrated by an overlord with a pressing need for tougher workers but who had less interest in DNA than in diodes. Not even Her Highness denied that it was a terrible thing to have done, but the princess had wrought wonders to rectify the worst aspects of the His Majesty's slipshod handiwork. The ones on the floor now were more refined, more powerfully built, and better suited to the grueling conditions of the mines and upcountry. Nowadays, the rough and ready workers had no shortage of recruits for the Office of Genomics to vet.

Next came the merrows, the sea laborers, sailors, and fishermen who'd welcomed becoming part sea lion. They were sleek and muscular, not to mention looking quite nice in speedos. Belphoebe might have no real intention or interest, but she could admire. This new tribe of humanity was fully voluntary from the start, and they too never lacked for recruitment prospects, though their numbers were tightly controled.

The most recent addition to the Karedonian collective of alternative humanity were the hamadryads who worked the greening slopes of the upcountry. Six strode purposefully along, strong and formidable women built like oak trees. Belphoebe had recruited each of them personally over the course of the previous year, carefully vetting them for their commitment to conservation, their distaste for the weaknesses of their human bodies, and an absolute lack of connection to the Cult of the Jade Ogress, since they collaborated with dear Hyacinth on a daily basis. The other half-dozen of the woodsome ladies were helping the green giantess plant trees that day--in fact, Hyacinth never came near the city, though her worshippers were doubtless scattered amidst the crowds in the hopes of catching her. Terrible, awful people, those cultists.

But finally, the drow contingent paraded past, led by the seven baronesses and countesses whose names had been drawn from a hat last year to be this year's judges. The ladies wore their labcoats well, with pure white sleeves trailing brightly colored fringes as they managed a sequence of synchronized walking that was as impressive as any dance. Left, right, forward, back, they stepped in time and formed ranks two by two with arms out. This formed an aisle crisscrossed by sleeve and fringe which rose like a wave in the sunset till it got to the end and--

Belphoebe did not miss Her Highness's gasp of surprise at the sudden reveal of His Highness, clad in a dark blue labcoat with gold trim and the uranium-235 crest on his left breast pocket. With his head held high, his hair slicked back, and a goatee that had finally succeeded at filling the space before the infamous Wilkins Chin, Prince Jobe Arthur could be described as debonair. For all of three steps. Then he tripped on his bootlaces. But they were an impressive three steps, nonetheless.

As the countesses and baronesses took their spots as judges on the lowest tier of the dais, His Highness clambered up the back to reach his empty seat in the security capsule next to Her Highness. Belphoebe acknowledged his arrival with a nod, then turned her gaze--but not her attention--to the show floor below. She need at least pretend not to hear the conversation going on above and behind her.

"What are you doing here?" hissed Jobe Ann.

"I promised I would come, didn't I?" her royal partner said. "Oh, and you're wearing the tiara I made for you? It looks beautiful on you like that."

There was much low-frequency spluttering as the princess attempted to accept, decline, confirm, and refute the compliment in a jumble of sentences that lacked tail or head, but which ended in a grumbly, "...I hate you."

It was the usual protest, and from the prince came the usual reply: "I hate you too, my dear."

Despite the fact that one was still basically human while the other was practically not, Their Highnesses were true Wilkinses, with similarities which transcended most normal concepts of genetics. For instance, they were both terrible liars, fooling no one but themselves, not even each other. Belphoebe was not surprised when, a moment later, she heard the click and the sudden sense of auditory occlusion which meant that Their Highnesses had activated the royal capsule's privacy field. She might only wish the two of them took proper advantage of it and talked things out like the adults they supposedly were.

Her Imperial Highness, Princess Jobe Ann Wilkins of Karedonia

"Seriously, why are you here?" she demanded.

"Can't I take an interest in what interests you?" he countered.

"You haven't before. Not since..." A royal headshake did nothing to clear the confusion seated in a lower organ. "Not in this lifetime."

"Well, I was talking to my shrink--"

"Why is everyone doing that!?"

"...because you hired an entire cadre of skilled psychologists and ordered everyone to make full use of their services? And, even if I do not take orders from you, I can still recognize it as a good idea. The things I have learned about myself..."

She gifted him with a suspicious glance. This was more than she'd heard from him in a dog's age. "Like what?"

"Oh, various things, such as how Dad might've redacted my interests and hobbies to suit him better, but he still couldn't touch the core memories that made them yours." The prince gazed down at their shared kingdom and smiled. "They will never be mine again, but I still recognize how important they are to you, and so I've come. To support you."

"You didn't have to."

"And I choose to, anyway. In fact, I--ooh! Monkeys!" All appearance of serious thought and introspection vanished beneath the mists of childlike joy as Jobe Arthur watched Bova, in her role as Mistress of Ceremony, introduce the first of the medium pet-weight presentations. Dr. Toth and her semi-uplifted capuchin monkeys floated in on one of the hovering floor platforms. With them was a variety of household chore items and tools, for which tasks the monkeys performed admirably and with greater skill than any trained ape should ever manage.

The retrained ape in the chair next to her clapped his hands in delight, showing all the unrestrained glee she herself vaguely remembered from their shared childhood. It was sad and endearing in equal measure, but it was also a reminder of how much their less-than-dear father had fucked with their lives. If he ever returned from his retirement-in-exile, His Majesty Gizmatic the Worst would have a long line of people to answer to, and she'd be second up after Mom.

More hovering platforms moved in and out, cycling through the participants in this division. Each brought their own tricks, their own little quirks with which their creators hoped to impress. Points were an afterthought; they hardly mattered. The show was the thing, and bio-devisors the world over craved attention. Jobe Ann knew how it was, the desire to be taken seriously, to turn dreams to reality only for reality to neg them down like a bad boyfriend or rotten father. This show was streaming live, so that the world could see and be inspired, and for the creators to feel that validation which came with the approbation of others within their field.

And so she paid attention as well, to the enhanced monkeys and musical ferrets, to the retro-engineered Beelzebufo toad and to the knee-high feline homunculus who quoted the works of Shakespeare with a nasal lisp. Two dozen entrants in the medium pet-weight division, ten more for upper pet-weight, and three in the True Abomination category, reserved for those rare bio-devises engineered from the most basic materials and up. The man-sized amoeboid was particularly impressive for its stability alone, not to mention its range of motion and dexterity. And it only attempted to engulf its handler's head once, in a friendly manner. Most impressive, indeed.

As the last of the platforms cycled through, the floor was clear for the final division. 'Mid-megafauna' covered a wide range of sizes, all of them starting from 'large' and moving up, and in the three years of the Royal Biotechnology and Abominations World Kennel Club Association, it was still the upper limit. The theoretical 'grand megafauna' division had yet to see a single entrant. To have four in the mid-range was a wonder made of wonders.

The first wonder stomped its way across the arena floor, shaking it with each hoof-fall. The Boarochs had the sort of ugly magnificence that befit a poem better than a portrait, for though a picture might speak a thousand words, sometimes it was wiser to choose those words with care. The Boarochs was tremendous, powerful, built heavy in the hindquarters and even more in the fore, with thick bristles running in a brush of a mohawk down its back. Two tusk-horns jutted out two meters across before turning forward to terrible points. It was nearly two tons of meat on the hoof, and no sane God knew why Dr. Bullinsky had given it existence. Jobe Ann didn't know, either; that part of the submission forms had been left blank. Possibly the man had done it just because he could.

They were all thankful that this monstrous amalgamation of wild pig and wilder cow had been gifted a disposition more akin to the famous Ferdinand of the picture books, rather than the Erymanthean Boar of Greek myth. The handlers who cajoled it along all had the look of rodeo clowns, ready to scatter and distract at a moment's notice. The Boarochs paraded across the floor and back with a certain pride, returning soon to its special paddock for a congratulatory snack. For something of its size, with its antecedents, a peaceful stroll was a more notable trick than anything else.

The next presentee, Dr. Tanishi's racing snail, was being kept in a climate-controled sub-dome. Something about the Karedonian climate had failed to agree with it, and Jobe Ann could commiserate with its creator as the man explained all this in a short interview with Bova. Things just did not always go according to plan. Everywhere she looked, her life for the past decade, was a bitter reminder of that.

"Oh, it is a shame," said Jobe Arthur, himself a testament to how off-track life had taken her. The Crown Prince of Karedonia watched the footage of the racing snail at full speed as it zoomed down the streets of Kochi, Japan, and avoided traffic accidents with surprising grace and agility. "Imagine taking one of those around town."

"Yes..." Goddamnit, but the fool's enthusiasm was infectious.

Third in the division was one of her own pet projects, Specimen OB-17 of the owlbear program. She was aware of the beast's nickname, and in private she might even approve, but that was not for public presentation. OB-17 and its handler made their entrance as Bova wrapped up the explanatory introduction, and then the real show began.

"That's Roxie down there, isn't it?" asked Jobe Arthur. "My, she's growing up."

That she was. Little Roxanne Sharp looked professionally adult-ish in her Zoology Service uniform labcoat, with her hair done up and her cap pinned on. In her hands was a baton with a whip-like length of colorful streamers which danced through the air as she twirled around. OB-17 flipped and rolled playfully, looking fully at ease as it did a thick-legged dance of its own. The two of them paraded to the tune of the Karedonian national anthem, the brashfully frank and mildly belligerent "Enlighten This!"

She had to acknowledge the things her father did right, and one of those was his decision back in the early '80s to commission Freddie Mercury to write the anthem for a new kingdom. No other nation on Earth had electric guitar solos in their anthems, but here and now it was perfect for an owlbear to dance to the thumping drum beats. For a verse it went walking on its hind legs, and Roxie took a taloned paw in hand to stroll along. Then, with a lift and a leap, the owlbear wrangler stood and posed atop her charge as OB-17 finished waving forelegs and stomping hindlegs.

Then it was back on all fours as Roxie rode the owlbear back into the wings to the sound of applause.

Out of sight of the cameras, but not to Their Highnesses' seat in the imperial capsule, the drow girl was met with a hug and a kiss that went many seconds too long. "When did Roxie get a boyfriend?" asked Jobe Arthur.

"Recently." She tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"Good for her. That gives the rest of us hope, right?" The prince squinted a little as he peered through the security field. "Huh, is that a Whateley uniform?"

"It is." This was verging on problem territory. Of all the many mental redactions in her royal partner's skull, the school-related ones had left the most thorough and lasting damage, due to how harsh a scrubbing had been necessary to make memory match a pre-determined reality.

Jobe Arthur was well enough now to realize this for himself, ending the topic with another "Huh" followed soon after by a "Doggy!"

Daniel

The kiss was many seconds too short, but it couldn't be helped. He and the pup had come to Karedonia for one specific thing, and they had to get that over and done with. So, reluctantly, he left Roxie to her own tasks, gave a nod to Cookie that was responded to in duplicate, and grabbed his supply bag. Pup grabbed the handles of the big pull wagon, and as Miz Bova did her introduction, they ran out onto the floor. An instrumental arrangement, found online the other night, played "How Much Is That Doggy In the Window?" on a three-minute loop as he made a show of directing Cookie around--but only a show, because pup knew exactly what they were doing. Might've been pup knew better than he did, at this point. The pull-wagon got parked in the center of the performance floor, in front of the judges' panel, and then pup was arranging a sturdy folding table with two paws and both mouths. Pup's tray was set carefully on top.

From Daniel's own bag, seven tea saucers were drawn, then placed in a honeycomb formation on the tray. Serving forks fitted in between them. Finally, with a flourish of his magician's scarf, he magicked up slices of cave troll chili chocolate mini-tarts onto the plates, each topped with a thick layer of stiffened cream to keep the capsaicin from spreading to pup's noses and giving them the sniffles and sneezes. Inside his head, in whatever space the treats appeared out of, he could feel the stress of mixing and matching traits like this, but it was a familiar thing by now, like a muscle aching from exercise. Would've been easier if he'd made more variations on the chocolate by hand, but weren't no way he was messing with cave troll without Roxie present to help. As it was, the tarts were an adorable little treat to make the performance of a well-trained pup more memorable.

The two heads each took a handle in the mouth and with careful grace carried the desserts over to the countesses and baronesses to enjoy. Miz Madrigal would've informed them that a treat was in-coming, so the surprise on their faces must've been faked, but the delight wasn't. Daniel knew that emotion when he saw it in a customer's eyes, that light they got when they got something nice. The seven drow ladies each took a plate off the tray and then, when all were served, they had a taste.

Again, he knew delight and satisfaction when he saw it. Each of the drow ladies with their pure black skin and shocking silver-white hair had on identical expressions of enjoyment as they dug in and realized just what a treat they'd received. The surprise was genuine this time, and the delight the same as ever.

Only... His eyes noted one drow lady at the end, on the righthand side. The surprise was there, but the delight was fake and fading fast as her eyes first went wide, and then visibly bulged. With a strangled cry, the lady fell from her seat and onto the convention center floor. When she stood again, her face was pale from shock.

Given that she was supposed to be a drow, that last part probably wasn't a good thing.

"Impostor!" shouted someone from higher up in the fancy seating. "Security, seize her!"

The un-drow's face had paled to eggshell, and it was about as smooth as one. Eyes, nose, brows, all gone--nothing left on it but a mouth that shouted, as a handgun was raised and armed, "Sic semper monstris!"

Didn't matter who she was gonna shoot; Cookie didn't give her the chance. Pup slid in for a body check that sent the impostor flying. There were cries from the judges' panel and an alarm flashing up on top where Their Highnesses were, but when the gun went off, nothing got hit but the ceiling lights. One paw the size of a dinnerplate held the failed assassin down as security officers converged. But before they could arrive, the assassin let out a low, ugly gurgle and slumped into the floor. Cookie pulled the paw back, distaste obvious on both faces as the body collapsed into a puddle of sludge-filled clothing.

Daniel was right there beside them, doing his job of giving neck pats and ear skritches while saying "Good pup."

"Waroof..." Cookie didn't sound too sure of anything just then.

Belphoebe

Well, wasn't this a fine mess? That was usually how the line went, but as Belphoebe looked at the puddle of slop and sundries, 'fine' was not the adjective she would put to it. This was bio-devisory at its wettest and messiest, and she'd rather not have bothered. "A doppelpodder," she stated flatly. "In this day and age."

"So it would seem," agreed Bova, who stood with Countess Joë from Security to oversee the first look-over. "Impersonating the Baroness South-Ridge."

"Who even has doppelpodder stock anymore? Its creator died back in the '70s, didn't he?"

"Well, we do, for one," said Bova. "In the back gardens of the para-botanical department. They're good for expendable field work in dangerous situations. Collect plenty of samples," she instructed the security officers. "We'll need to compare lineage drift."

Belphoebe turned to Countess Joë. The Security drow looked rightly embarrassed to find her neighbor on the judges' panel wasn't actually her neighbor. As the Duchess Sec-Intel, Belphoebe had the authority to tell the woman exactly what she herself wanted to do: "Go follow up on Ashley's whereabouts. Doppelpodders need their source material kept alive, so they can't have killed her yet." Just give them time, though... was the unfortunate thought after.

Speaking of afterthoughts, the duchess focused her attention on the pup and its boy. The two of them had been left waiting for several minutes now, as Security took statements and examined one large paw for post-assassin sludge. "Daniel Diggins," she began. "And Cookie."

"Yes, ma'am?" The boy pulled himself up straight, while pup sat on its haunches with both heads up and ears at attention. "Um, sorry to cause a ruckus, ma'am."

Gothmog-damnit, but the kid was making her feel old. "Don't be sorry. The timing might not have been optimal in the slightest, but failed assassinations rarely are. Their Highnesses would thank you personally if their automatic defense module would let them out anytime soon. Go back to the staging area and let Dr. Carlyle look his dog over. Oh, and one more thing."

"Um, yes, ma'am?"

She couldn't help but let a grin slide across her face. "Be sure to give Roxie all the reassurance she needs. I see she's looking very worried over there."

"Yes, ma'am!" At her nod of dismissal, the boy and the pup bounded back into the wings.

Right. Now that all was said and done, Belphoebe toook a deep breath to calm her insides. It wouldn't be a mad science event without something untoward and unplanned occurring, but at least this had had the courtesy of happening at the very end of the main event, and in the presentation floor, rather than amidst the biome exhibits. Why--

A sharp sound pushed across the arena chamber as personal palm tablets in holsters all chimed the same alert simultaneously.

Why oh why did she have to jinx things, even in her own brain? Belphoebe tapped her tablet screen, possibly with more force than the little device deserved, and sought out the source of alarm.

ZOOLOGICAL DOME INTERNAL NETWORKS COMPROMISED. CONTAINMENT NETWORKS COMPROMISED. IMMEDIATE SYSTEM SHUTDOWN IMMINENT. By the time her eyes had scanned the words, and her brain understood them, the lights had already cut out.

Gothmog-damnit.

Daniel

He was used to not knowing exactly what was going on in the big picture of things. It was a pretty common feeling to have when you lived at Whateley and something was always going down. Best to trust the folks who made it their business to know, he figured.

Only, the folks who should know were all cussing about the lights going out. He could hear them back the way he and Cookie'd come, and it weren't at all reassuring. Even as the dim red emergency lights came on, the vibe didn't change.

Pup made sure he had a hand on the harness so they wouldn't get separated on their way to the staging area. The open space was a bit better lit, mainly due to one devisor's glow-in-the-dark bats flapping around over everyone's heads. Hard to say whether it was worth it, but he found Mr. Carlyle and Roxie fast enough. He wasn't the only one, either. Miz Madrigal was there with Miz Debbie and Miz Cordelia.

The doc was less than pleased. "Cody, you should have left at the first sign of trouble! Debbie, you should have made her leave!"

"It would not be the first time I followed you headlong into a disaster, John," his wife tutted. "And as I recall, you needed the help then, too."

"That was when we were both young and stupid, and now..." The old man sighed. "We've not gotten any younger. I'd hoped for wiser, though."

Miz Madrigal was reading an update on her palm tablet. "Whatever is going on, it doesn't look good," she informed. "Biome floor exhibits have breached containment. This was in fact the safest direction to go. Cody? Debbie? From here, you can take the service corridor out into the small exhibits hall. Nothing over that way should be out and about, and from there it's a clear line to the exit."

Mr. Carlyle held his wife's hand. "I should..."

"We need you and all other collegated bio-devisors on hand to help deal with your personal crimes against nature," Miz Madrigal told him. "Lady Bova's request, but not a royal command as yet." The drow's tone let it be known that this last part was subject to change.

Daniel knew his duty when he heard it come calling. "I can get 'em to the entrance, and then out to the monorail station. My visa dongle opens doors, right? Shouldn't be a problem."

"Woof?"

"Sorry, pup, but those anti-monster protestors are out there and we got enough little monsters running around in here, sounds like. You stay and keep the doc safe."

"Kyun..." Not even a meat pie could make a sad pup feel better, but the treats were gobbled gladly anyway. Then he produced snozzberry cream tarts for the devisors and assistants, fruit pies for the glowy bats, and a pile of oatcakes for Wilbur the Boarochs. After the chili chocolate tarts and all, he was feeling kinda tired, but not in any way that made his legs not work.

Roxie looked about ready to say something when he gave her a tart, only her mom put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head. "All hands on deck, as it were. Lady Bova needs you to assist the Zoology Service," mother told daughter. Daughter made a face, but nodded in reluctant agreement.

The hug and good-luck kiss were far less reluctant, but ever so welcome.

Miz Debbie carried the flashlight for them as they made their way through the poorly lit back route. The in-between space was empty of people, which would've been less reassuring if they couldn't clearly hear the shouts and screams on the other side of various doors they passed. No noise was good news.

But they had to fill the silence somehow: "It's nice to see the two of you getting along so well," Miz Cordelia commented as he walked them down the access corridor.

"Mebbe we're takin' it a little fast?" he wondered.

"Does it feel like you are?"

"Um, no." Truth to tell, the last three days had felt longer and more alive than anytime in his life so far. It was like living at the speed of love caused time dilation or compression or something. "It's just, er, hard to describe."

"Remind me to tell you the story of how John and I met, sometime," said the older lady. "When we're less rushed for time or self-preservation."

"For what it's worth," said Miz Debbie. "I got a few times in my past where I took things too slow out of caution and then lost the momentum. And honestly, I don't think anyone could really disapprove of you and Roxie."

"Thanks..." They were at Service Door A-22, what led to the small critter terrariums and aquariums exhibition. He couldn't hear anything on the other side, so he dared to place his visa dongle on the security doorplate.

Nothing happened. The lights weren't on in the little box, but the door was still bolted. "Well, cra... er, crumbs," he said, catching himself in front of the ladies.

"In my day, we'd say 'crap on a cracker to make a shit sandwich,'" Miz Cordelia replied. The old lady had a hand in her purse and was searching. "Now, where did I... ah, there it is," she announced as she retrieved a small tool kit. "Debbie, if you could put your flashlight upon the pad there? Thank you."

With a flat-head screwdriver, Miz Cordelia jimmied open the casing. Daniel couldn't quite see what she did after that, but it involved more screwdriving, some wire-snipping, and a 9-volt battery. The security panel blinked on, and then it accepted the signal from the visa dongle. Red changed to green, and the lock clicked open.

"Um, ma'am? How...?"

"I did not survive the past five decades with John by being unprepared," was all she told him. Then she winced and massaged her hand. "It's not gotten any easier, sadly. Come on, let's get going."

The small critter exhibition hall looked to be deserted, or at least no one was visible in the low emergency lighting. The various aquariums and terrariums were bubbling, whirring, or clicking along on their own personal power supplies, and a lot of them brought more light to the hall than the red lamps overhead.

"Everyone who was still in here must have gotten out immediately," said Miz Cordelia. "That is a good sign."

A howl sounded from somewhere far-off and hopefully a few halls away. "Yes, but that isn't," said Miz Debbie.

The hall exit was near the front of the convention center, and technically a straight dash out, if it weren't for the technicalities. There were three of those, hopping around on two legs like fat chickens that just happened to be furry and fuzzy and actually be wolf-heads wandering around without the rest of the body. The things were each about the size of a football, which wouldn't sound like much till you realized that they were mostly mouth. They hopped when they hooted, and hooted when they saw...

Oh, crap.

Not Daniel or the ladies, but another guy, looking middle-aged and losing more years from fright as he ran in circles to avoid the snapping jaws.

Three critters. Three pies, appearing in his hands one after the other. Pup's favorite meat pies, mostly beef and stew gravy in a fried pouch, with the bare minimum of veggies his power for some reason required in order for the magicking to work. The first pie skidded across the floor, crossing paths with the hooty-hoppers but not distracting them from their chosen target. The next two pies hit the critters hard in the snout.

"Nice throw," he said to Miz Debbie.

"Thanks. Maybe I should get back into softball one of these days. Pie me." She held the treat in a southpaw grip, squinted as she took aim, and then she pegged the third hooty-hopper with a tasty baked good. The critters finally got the message, chomping and chewing and gulping. With happier hoots, they hopped back down the other way.

"Are you okay, sir?" asked Daniel He ran to the man to help him get back to his feet.

"I have been better," the man griped. "Awful idea, this place. All the assurances in the world about how safe it is, but then everything's trying to eat you. Safe? Hah!"

"So's a car till someone cuts the brake line," said Daniel. "Let's get out of here. Exit's that way, right?"

"It should be... shit." The man was looking in the wrong direction, where the wrong thing was looking back at them. A dozen or more hooty-hoppers bounded down the hall with their tongues lolling out.

That's what he got for feeding things: More things to feed.

"Run for it!" said the man, who made good on his words a second later.

Daniel paused long enough to magic up a pile of the meat pies on the floor. There was a twinge deep down in the wherever as he felt the strain of making too much at once, but it was only the latest little one in a fairly busy day. He wasn't gonna make a habit of it. Then he looked beyond the first dozen hooty-hoppers, to where the outlines of even more critters moved in the red emergency lights. He was gonna be making a habit of it if he stayed any longer.

"We're at the door!" yelled Miz Debbie, which was all he needed to know. Months of keeping up with Cookie had him running like the gingerbread man, all the way out into the sunshine.

Pink eyes blinked hard as he readjusted his sunglasses. The outside weren't much better than the inside.

"No mercy for monsters!" screamed one side, protesters with matching signs and faces as red as an angry monkey's. They shouted and waved their slogans while that godawful Christian rap act continued to beatbox their way to the opposite end of glory over the loudspeakers.

"Let the Ogress go!" shouted the other side, less shrill but just as loud. Some of the hooded folks had formed a weird prayer circle around a little green idol, which had not gone unnoticed by the HAET'M side. Karedonian security forces stood sternly in place to keep an aisle open between the two groups while stragglers escaped the convention center.

"Move along, move along," one officer was shouting, a very tall drow lady with a silver braid down her back who looked oddly familiar for some reason. "Clear the aisle! Monorail station's open, and all fares are currently waived. Get yourselves outta here and stay safe."

The man from before, Daniel noted, had run straight into the arms of the HAET'M faction. It didn't make him regret the rescue, but it did make him sad. He and the ladies passed them by, walking past the market stalls where locals were frantically packing and unpacking, all the way to the monorail station. There was, predictably, a wait for a place on one of the pearl-string conveyances, but Miz Debbie and Miz Cordelia could wait.

He couldn't. He was going back in.

Jobe Ann Wilkins

Security systems on the imperial observation capsule were everything the crown princess had come to expect of a thing her father had built. His Imperial Majesty had never suffered from paranoia, preferring instead to make others suffer for his own whims. The royal capsule set atop the dais was one such thing, designed to keep her safe in the event of a disaster--or to keep her contained during a disaster of her own device. The security bubble field, so convenient for keeping uncomfortable conversations private, locked into a hard-light dome without any latches or obvious means of shutting it off.

"My resolution for the coming year," she grumbled, "will be to excise any remaining elements of Father's design in the security apparatus and replace it with things that will do what I tell them to do."

"What we tell them to do," His Highness corrected. "Though I am in complete agreement otherwise, my dear."

"...don't call me that."

"What do I call you, then?" he countered. "I know we both avoid the matter as much as possible, but when we're discussing something face to face, it's hard not to make a nominative reference, and calling you by name just feels..." A tic shivered across the left side of his face. "...weird."

"Well, we've never been one for nicknames." That was the unfortunate truth. Even their MIDs lacked code names. Anonymity and professional identities had never been options, not with Dad ruling his little island.

"How about a floral nickname? Does that sound reasonable?"

"What, like calling me Rose, or Daisy?"

"I was thinking Snapdragon," he admitted.

"...seriously?"

"It was either that or Deadly Nightshade. And while you are, in fact, a bella donna, that does not have the feel of something you might enjoy."

She sighed. "Fine. Snapdragon's fine. If you can get us out of here!" she hastened to say.

There was a click, and the hard-light dome popped out of existence. "What did you think I was working on as we had our talk?"

The sigh sucked itself back in, priming the pump for a glare. "You sneaky devil."

"Oh, can that be my nickname? I like that one."

It would be a day of many heavy sighs, she knew. "Let's go see what Belphy's got to tell us."

Down on the convention floor, security agents and Zoological Servicefolk were out en masse as Belphoebe gave orders to the former and Bova took reports from the latter. The crowd parted to let Their Highnesses through, but neither Jobe delivered any orders as yet. Much like any laboratory setting, delegation was key--and if that lesson had been hard-learned in the past, it was all the dearer now. As yet, neither of them knew what was going on, and their first priority was to change that variable to a more favorable one. Until then, everyone seemed to know what they were doing, so let them to it.

"Greetings, parent and co-parent," said Belphoebe once they caught up to her. The duchess tapped a few more items off her palm tablet screen, then nodded to a security agent. When the junior drow ran off to perform her task, Belphoebe turned her full attention back to Their Highnesses. "So nice to see you out of that safety trap."

"I notice you didn't send anyone to help," Jobe Arthur said.

"And insult your abilities? Perish the thought."

The duchess could snark all day if given the chance, so Jobe Ann cut to the chase: "Situation report. Now."

"Oh fine. Ahem. One assassination attempt on your person or persons."

"We noticed," said His Highness.

"Yes, that was hard to miss, wasn't it? Though we should all be thankful that the assassin did. Confirmed doppelpodder varietal, checking against known genetic strain profiles now. We still don't know how or when it replaced Ashley, but..."

But doppelpodders had a limited shelf life, once they matured and took an identity. It must have been recent. Her memory fluttered back to a conversation from the other day. "Ashley. Baroness South-Ridge. It was her condominium complex that was caught up in the poorly managed hit squad activity, wasn't it."

"Exactly. I've got Joë working on that already. The supposed target was a shell identity, licensed via the imperial blockchain for personal anonymity, so it may take us a while longer to figure out if the hit job was legitimate. Ahem, second item, the obvious electrical disruption and resultant change to awful mood lighting." Belphoebe waved away her annoyance at the red lamps above. "We appear to have an active Code Nedry in progress. There are confirmed containment breaches throughout the menagerie biomes. Bova's crews are focused on getting our guests out safely before attempting recontainment. It would help if we could get the systems back up and running again, too, but the interference appears to be constant."

Jobe Arthur shifted in place, stepping forward without moving an inch. "Ten minutes and I'll have a lock on the source."

"Only ten?" she snarked.

"Well, I need to stop by the toilet, first."

"Fine. Go and do your business," she told him. "Help save the day."

"And then you'll come see my robot show this evening?" The boyish enthusiasm and hope bounced through his voice once more.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Jobe Ann sighed as His Highness ran off. "What is it, Belphy?"

"Oh nothing, parent dear. Just enjoying the sight of you two getting along."

"Not now..." she groaned.

And of course, Belphoebe obliged by changing the topic to something even less palatable: "Third item, the protestors at the gate realize something's up. Angie dear is on the scene and keeping us informed, but things might get rowdy."

A royal hand attempted to wave the nuisance away. Failing that, Jobe Ann said, "All those present should have protest visas and whatnot, and they absolutely should read the fine print on those things. If they cross any lines or limitations, then..." Her smile was brightly feral against her drow-black face. "They can pay for it."

Roxie

One of her dad's favorite comic book series loved to repeat the line, "With great power comes great responsibility." What didn't get mentioned was that great responsibility could come part and parcel with all manner of other things, like uniforms. Her uniform, the labcoat and suit ensemble of the Zoological Service, specifically carried a huge duty with it, which was how she was now come to escorting a gaggle of mostly reformed mad scientists through a convention gone topsy-turvy, with only a mini-tranq pistol, a couple of knives, and her wits to protect her.

"Ghu-hu." "Waroof." And the critters. Cookie and Crumpette were being their best selves as they ambled alongside Wilbur the Boarochs and the gang of trained monkeys riding his broad shoulders. The three larger beasts took up a lot of space, so the squishier humans and smaller critters mostly followed after. A certain dutiful drow got to lead in front.

It was her, the dutiful drow. Just her luck. She was thankful for the oat treats Daniel had left with her; Wilbur was more amenable to being told where to go when he had something to chew on. That didn't stop the heavyset quadruped from lowing and snorting at the least problem.

Dr. Zots' luminescent chiropterans fluttered ahead and back in teams, illuminating the path and spooking the occasional smaller thing into running off. The sheer size of the trio meant she had to pick their route with care, as the boardwalks of the beach or marshland biome exhibits would have crumpled under Wilbur's mass. That meant avoiding the grassland biome as well, which was likely for the best. The tumor-cattle were mostly safe and snug, pent up in there, and she didn't want to mess with something that was going right.

But all that meant they had to hook through the various forest biomes more, with their mostly-fake trees and all too real critters. Out in the darkness of the exhibitions, vague shapes dashed back and forth. Even her drow eyes had trouble making out just what was going where within the sheltering brush, but everything seemed fairly small. There weren't a lot of larger critters on exhibit; nothing in the lower megafauna range, present company excluded. A critter would have to be crazy to even come near.

Only, there was a growl not too far off, and a howl from much too near, and she was reminded that none of these things could be much saner than their creators, many of whom qualified as, at the very least, criminally irresponsible.

"Aroof!" Cookie's double-barreled bark enforced the peace around them.

"Good pup," said Dr. Carlyle.

"Dastardly thing to be happening," said Dr. Bullinsky. "Horribly inconvenient."

Dr. Tanishi kept a careful pace as they walked, and it was hard to get a read on the man's face in the dim and occasionally flappy light, but there was a burr of annoyance to his voice. "It is what we get for hosting in Karedonia."

"Where else?" demanded Dr. Bullinsky. "Where better? I don't know about you, but some of us have active warrants, sanctions, or fatwas against us. At least here, they only care about the quality of your grant proposal paperwork."

The Japanese bio-devisor's thin moustache twitched as his mouth wriggled around a frown. "Yes... and the same could be said for our hostess. I wonder which, ah... yes, which chickens have come home to roost this time."

"Whatever else," Dr. Carlyle reminded, "she is still our host. Ah, Roxie? How much further would you say it is?"

They were skirting the sub-alpine biome now. To go straight through meant climbing a slope with the climate controls gone non-predictable. "We're almost to the back-end connection," she promised. "Just... um, Cookie? Is everything alright?"

Pup's heads were up, with ears like parabolic antennas twitching about. Then one head nuzzled Wilbur reassuringly while the other woofed to Crumpette. The owlbear gave a "ghu-hu" in response, which was apparently all pup needed. A few careful steps gave them safe distance from the other critters, and then the pupper legs pumped like pistons to take Cookie up the sub-alpine slope at full speed.

"Wait! Wait!" she called after.

Dr. Carlyle gave her a grandfatherly pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Pup does that sometimes, according to Daniel. They'll help whoever it is in trouble and get back to us. But we," he added, "need to get Crumpette, Wilbur, and their smaller friends to safety."

Duty and responsibility... "Right," she repeated. "Let's go."

Daniel

It was a straight line from the monorail station, across the elevated platform plaza, and to the convention hall entrance. He'd just walked the distance without any trouble. Going back should've been as easy as turning around and putting one foot in front of another. But "should've" was the worst of all words, because reality hated it so much. The aisle leading to the center's entrance was closing fast as merchant carts jostled and competed for space. Daniel dodged and ducked around, but couldn't find a way through.

He could find a familiar face, though: "Um, Reynaldo? Sir?"

"Ah! El novio!" The merchant turned away from whatever spectacle was drawing in the merchants like moths to a flame. "What are you doing?"

"I need to get back in," he told the man. "Roxie's still in there."

"¿Un rescate?" The man said something more to his wife in rapid-fire Spanish, and she replied with "Que romántico!" Then the family cart moved aside just enough for him to squeeze through.

He might've asked what was going on, only he had eyes to see. Up ahead, the two competing groups of protestors had pressed their way out of the Hate Speech and Toxic Ontology Zone barriers, and what little space was left between them was held by the tall drow security officer and her agents. Nobody looked too violent yet, just loud, but he didn't think that'd last for long.

Neither did the drow lady, apparently. Her voice crackled over an announcement system: "This is a Security FYI notification. This protest is now officially reclassified as an angry mob action. I repeat, this protest is now reclassified as an angry mob action. Under Article 6, subsection 17 of the Karedonian Assembly Code, you are granted ten minutes from the end of this warning to vacate the area. Should you remain, all protest visa holders will be automatically upgraded to angry mob visa status, and the appropriate processing fees will be forwarded to your preferred payment provider. Any visitor, researcher, or henchman visa holders should leave now or face potential visa reassignment as well. If that is not possible, then you may appeal the change of visa status to the Ministry of Immigration with any evidence or testimony you feel is exculpatory. For anyone who chooses to remain, our helpful local merchants are stocked with traditional Karedonian souvenir torches, pitchforks, and t-shirts for your angry mob convenience. Thank you for listening. Your ten minute grace period begins now."

Over the drow's head, a large holographic timer began ticking down the seconds.

It took several ticks for the twin protest groups to process what was going on, and when the various members did, it was predictably chaos. The merchant wagons opened a few spaces to allow folks to funnel through on their way out, but hardly anyone seemed to want to leave. Sales of torches, t-shirts, and pitchforks were booming, however, which only made Daniel want to get himself in ahead of them all the more. Seven full minutes had ticked down the clock display by the time he could elbow and palm-slam his way through to where the security agents barred the way.

"And just where do you think you're going?" asked one man in uniform. The nametag on his chest read 'S. Valdez.'

"Need to get back in, sir," he told the man.

"You and all those fine folks behind you, sure. You can wait your turn."

"But, um, sir. My dog and my... um, my girlfriend are..."

"Save the excuses for the post-mob reports, kid."

"But--!"

"Everything okay over there?" The drow officer with the long silver braid strode over. "Sam, what's going on?"

"Just this kid trying to cut in line, m'lady."

"Is that so..." The lady loomed over him, narrowed her eyes, and then shook her head just enough to make her long braid twitch. "That outfit... Twain Cottage, huh?"

"Um, yes, ma'am?" He took a second to lower his shades and present his icing pink irises. "Here with Doc Talltale, assisting with animal care."

"More'n that, I reckon." The drow chuckled. "Sam, what'd he tell you?"

"Something about a dog and a girlfriend."

The officer nodded. "Yup, I knew it. You're Roxie's beau. Nice to meet you. Let him through, Sam. He's got the clearance and..." She stared past Daniel for a beat. "And he'll need a bit more of a head start than we can afford to give him. Hurry up, kid."

He hardly paused for a thank-you as he dashed inside, but behind him, he thought he heard a chuckle and "Twainees..." before the doors cut off all the sounds of a growing mob and left nothing but a temporary and dangerous silence.

 

To Be Continued