The Guardians of Zoone

by Lee Edward Födi

  “This isn’t what the door showed,” Ozzie said.

  “No—I should have told you. The ripple door doesn’t show you exactly what’s on the other side of the door, it just shows you a picture of the world. A scene that depicts its overall . . .”

  “Essence?” Aunt Temperance wondered. “Like a travel brochure?”

  “Or a TV commercial?” Ozzie added, hearing an approving purr from Tug.

  “I suppose,” Cho answered. He swished his hand through the air where they’d come from. “No sign of the door; it must only go one way. Well, no point lingering. Let’s find a more modern part of the station.”

  “I’ll lead the way, Captain!” Scoot proclaimed. She wheeled ahead through one of the archways. “Everyone follow m—”

  There was a deafening clang, like the sound of someone hitting a very large gong with an even larger mallet. Everyone raced after the moto, turning a corner to see Scoot wobbling at a standstill, her head twisting round and round like a top. It was going so quickly that it spun right off her neck and arced through the air. Ozzie reached out to catch it, only to have it fly through his open arms. The moto’s head hit his foot; he gave a sort of awkward half kick and the head bounced upward, right into his hands.

  “Good catch,” Tug said, as if Ozzie had planned it that way.

  Ozzie turned Scoot’s head over in his hands to stare at her eyes. There was a flicker of light, a static buzz, and then they turned dark. Her now-headless body meandered aimlessly past Ozzie, and began bumping repeatedly against the nearest wall, like a stuck wind-up toy.

  “How do you like them kettle o’ snarfs?” came a voice from the shadows. “It looks different, but it sure sounds the same when you whacks it.”

  Aunt Temperance whirled her light toward the sound of the voice to reveal a humongous, blubbery creature emerging from the darkness.

  “M-Miss Mongo?” Ozzie stammered.

  “You’re Miss Mongo?” Aunt Temperance gasped. “Zoone’s cook? Ozzie told me about you, but I thought you would be less . . .”

  “Less what, luv?” Miss Mongo entreated as she lurched forward.

  “Everything?” Aunt Temperance hazarded.

  Just between him and himself, Ozzie couldn’t blame Aunt Temperance for her reaction. If a mountainous blob of jelly could contract the mumps, then you would have Miss Mongo. She was a groll, which meant she didn’t have feet—or possibly eyes, though rumor had it that they were just hidden somewhere within all the folds, knobs, and bumps that covered her body. The only things that made Miss Mongo seem a little less threatening were the apron tied around her waist—or what passed as her waist—and the rolling pin she held in one hand. Except, Ozzie realized, she had probably used the rolling pin to do the clobbering.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked, cradling Scoot’s head in his arms.

  “Well, it’s a moto, innit?” Miss Mongo said, brandishing her rolling pin. “That’s what I do when I sees a moto. I whacks it.”

  “Just to tell you, she’s a she,” Tug told the groll. “Plus, she’s on our side.”

  “Is that so?” Miss Mongo said. “Never heard of a moto that defected.”

  “How about one that’s defective?” Fidget quipped, gesturing to Scoot’s body.

  The headless moto had managed to rotate away from the wall and was beetling down the corridor, as if intent on avoiding a second encounter with Miss Mongo’s rolling pin.

  “Stop!” Ozzie cried. Still holding Scoot’s head, he stuck out a leg to try to block her progress, but she rolled right past him—though, in the process, her wheel snagged his shoelace. Suddenly, Ozzie was hopping along behind her just to keep up.

  “Kitchen staff used to complain about me takin’ their heads off,” Miss Mongo prattled as Cho jumped to Ozzie’s rescue by yanking out Scoot’s battery. “Of course, that was for burnin’ me soup. I never actually whacked them—don’t believe ’em if they says I did. How’d you lot get down here, anyway? Cap’n, you been missin’ for weeks. Thought you was a goner.”

  “So did I,” Cho said with a chuckle. He steadied Scoot’s body while Aunt Temperance came over to untangle Ozzie’s shoelace. When everything was sorted, the captain and Aunt Temperance rolled the moto back to the group (Ozzie kept out of the way). “Truth is, I’ve been stuck in Moton,” Cho told Miss Mongo. “But it wasn’t all bad. It allowed me to meet up with our old friends and make our way across the wild lands. We discovered a ripple door in Thrak that led us here.”

  “Ripple door, eh?” Miss Mongo said. “Shows it to me then.”

  “It only goes one way,” Fidget told her. “You can’t even see it from this side.”

  “Too bad,” Miss Mongo said, putting her hands on her—well, Ozzie decided, “hips” wasn’t quite the right word. “Could use an escape route, if it came to that.”

  “The motos,” Ozzie said, comprehending. “Is that why you’re down here? In the catacombs?” Miss Mongo was famously known for her dedication to her job. As head of the station’s food service, she rarely left the bustling kitchens of Zoone.

  “Anything good on the stove?” Tug asked, rubbing his head against the groll’s amorphous body. “Snirf and snarf? Grumffles? Torgivian stew?”

  “Nothin’,” Miss Mongo said. “Not up in the proper kitchens, anyway. I’ve been made redundant. I don’t fit the desired physical profile.”

  “What?!” Ozzie blurted. “This is Zoone. You can’t be fired for how you look.”

  “Well, it wasn’t for me Ippeian soufflé,” the groll said. “Because if that was the case, I’d have a job for life. I’m too . . .” She gestured at Aunt Temperance. “It’s like she said. Too everything. Too lumpy. Too fat. Not symmetrical enough, the way he likes his staff. An aberration. That’s what he calls folks like me.”

  “Who’s he?” Aunt Temperance asked.

  “Klaxon,” Miss Mongo replied bitterly. “Ruler of Zoone.”

  Aunt Temperance jolted like she had just been jabbed by an electrified moto claw. “What do you mean ‘ruler’? Zaria runs the nexus—”

  “In name only,” Miss Mongo interjected. “Klaxon’s runnin’ the show behind the scenes. Fired anyone he doesn’t like the look of.”

  All the color drained from Aunt Temperance’s face. “I don’t understand,” she murmured. “He’s not Klaxon, he’s—”

  “Where we supposed to go, hmm?” Miss Mongo wondered. “Zoone’s the only home I got, me. So now I’m bumblin’ round down here, lookin’ for slugs and snails to supplement our soup.”

  She paused, and Ozzie wondered if she was getting teary. Something was dripping off her chin—though, for all he knew, it might have been drool. Or maybe just her chin itself.

  “Bunch of us aberrations hid away down here, standin’ against Klaxon,” Miss Mongo continued. “We’re the Zoone Underground, that’s what we are. Zoone’s guardians.”

  “What about the rest of the ’verse?” Ozzie asked. “What about the Council of Wizardry?”

  Miss Mongo snorted. “As far as them wizards know, Lady Zoone is still in charge and nothin’s wrong. Station’s still runnin’, innit?”

  “Send them a quirl,” Fidget suggested. “Tell them—”

  “You don’t think we thought of that?” Miss Mongo grumbled. “Klaxon shut down the quirlery. All mail delivered ‘technological’ now, which means restricted. Sent me kitchen girls, Panya and Piper, to try and sniff out a wizard or two in person, but I don’t know what happened to them. Maybe they made it. Maybe they didn’t. It’s been a week; could be in prison for all I know.”

  “Zoone doesn’t have a prison,” Ozzie said.

  “It does now, luv,” Miss Mongo told him. “And if them girls did make it? Well, you know wizards. Bunch of bureaucrats. Don’t do anything quickly. Come along, then. I’ll take you to our headquarters. It’s not much, but at least I can brew a pot o’ tea.”

  “What about Scoot?” Ozzie asked. “We have to fix her.”

  “Bring ’er along, luv.
” Miss Mongo beckoned as she began slithering into the shadows. “Mr. Whisk can fiddle with her. He’s the best tinker in the ’verse, despite what some think.”

  “You carry her head, lad,” Cho told Ozzie, passing him Scoot’s battery. “I’ll take the rest of her.”

  Ozzie pocketed the ring and began to follow before realizing that Aunt Temperance was still lingering in the shadows.

  “Mercurio can’t be the one in charge,” she mumbled, staring at the wall. “It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s not in his nature. He’s not capable . . .”

  Fidget threw Ozzie a knowing glance, then snatched the flashlight from Aunt Temperance and gave her an encouraging nudge down the passageway. Miss Mongo was already up ahead; she didn’t seem to have any problems navigating the darkness.

  Their route through the catacombs involved ramps and a few stairs. In the scant light of Aunt Temperance’s flashlight, Ozzie caught glimpses of ancient runes carved into the walls. He knew Lady Zoone’s ancestor, Zephyrus Zoone, had built the first station house millennia ago. Maybe he had built these very passageways.

  They reached a humble gray door, its wooden planks so old that they were worn smooth as river stones.

  “Welcome to Underground HQ,” she said before knocking on the door and announcing, “No one here ’cept us aberrations.”

  There was the sound of someone removing a crossbar from the other side, then Miss Mongo pushed the door open and led them through. A few guttering lanterns were perched about the space beyond, providing enough light for Ozzie to see a chamber with a low, vaulted ceiling and filled with crates, kegs, and bits of makeshift furniture. Ozzie was put in mind of the warehouse on Moton. That place at least had access to light; this one felt like a glorified dungeon.

  “Look what I turned up on patrol,” Miss Mongo announced—seemingly to no one. “More aberrations. Don’t worry about the moto. She’s on our side. I whacked her anyway, jus’ to be sure.”

  A head poked out from behind the door. It was Mr. Whisk, who—until recently, at least—had managed the luggage repair shop located in the station’s central hub. Ozzie knew why Klaxon considered Mr. Whisk an aberration, even though it angered him to even think about the tinker that way. Mr. Whisk had a tail, seven fingers on each hand, and a crop of facial hair that changed according to his mood. Based on the spiky bristles bursting from his chin, Ozzie guessed that Mr. Whisk was not feeling very cheerful at the moment.

  “This is it?” Fidget asked. “Your resistance is you and Mr. Whisk?”

  Ozzie silently agreed with her reaction. Mr. Whisk was a talented tinker, but he wasn’t exactly young and spry. Or intimidating. Miss Mongo, at least, had her rolling pin and a reputation to go with it. Mr. Whisk’s greatest asset was an unpredictable beard.

  “Used to be more of us,” Miss Mongo replied defensively as she closed the door behind them, “but we been gettin’ picked off and thrown in prison, like what I said. But it’s not just us two. We also got—”

  “Ozzie, my boy? Is that you?”

  A scruffy ball of fur scampered out of some nearby hidey-hole and launched itself at Ozzie’s leg. Ozzie shifted Scoot’s head in his arms and looked down. It was as if his leg had just snagged a very large burr with eyes, an arrow-like nose, and long fuzzy ears. “Fusselbone?!” Ozzie cried. “You’re here, too?”

  The mouse-man definitely wouldn’t fit most people’s parameters for “normal,” but Ozzie felt a spike of anger to see him hiding down here. Fusselbone was Zoone’s chief conductor—Ozzie couldn’t even begin to imagine how the station would run without him.

  “Seriously?” Fidget fumed, echoing Ozzie’s sentiment. “Klaxon fired you, Fusselbone? You?!”

  Fusselbone de-clamped from Ozzie’s leg and hopped from foot to foot in front of the princess. “It’s a preposasterous situation!” he squeaked. “Nothing’s running on time. Luggage is being lost. People are missing connections! Preposasterous!”

  His panicked outburst snapped Aunt Temperance out of her trance. “Preposasterous?” she echoed. “That’s not a proper word.”

  “In Zoone, it is,” Tug purred, giving the top of Fusselbone’s head a friendly lick.

  Fusselbone wiped away Tug’s slobber with a large checkered handkerchief before turning on Aunt Temperance. “Who are you, anyway?” he demanded, jabbing her leg with a furry finger. “I haven’t seen you before! Are you a spy? You look like a spy.” Fusselbone pivoted toward Cho. “I’m grateful to see you, Captain—I can see you’ve had some preposasterous adventures and I can’t wait to hear about all the ways you nearly died during them—but the very core of our secret base has been penetrated by this intruder. Quick! Apprehend this diabolical damsel so we can begin interrogating her.”

  “Ah, Ferbis,” Cho said with a warm smile. “I’ve missed your enthusiasm during my exile. There is nothing to fear; let me introduce you to Ozzie’s very own aunt: Temperance Sparks.”

  Fusselbone dropped his handkerchief. His mouth fell open and he audibly gasped. Mr. Whisk took a noticeable step backward. Miss Mongo seemed to pale.

  Aunt Temperance’s brow furled. “What is it?”

  “It’s you,” Fusselbone answered. “You’re the one . . .”

  “The one?” Aunt Temperance balked. “The one what?”

  “The one that all of this is about,” Fusselbone replied. “You’re the reason the nexus is falling apart! The reason we’re all in this absolutely preposasterous situation.”

  22

  A Misfit Mind

  Ozzie stared at the fidgety mouse-man. “Fusselbone, what are you talking about?”

  “It’s her!” Fusselbone insisted. “The one Klaxon—”

  “Mercurio,” Aunt Temperance interrupted.

  Fusselbone blinked at her.

  “His name is Mercurio,” Aunt Temperance stated firmly. “And the thing that none of you seem to understand is that he’s the victim. The motos are controlling him. Torturing him. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

  “The motos aren’t controlling him,” Miss Mongo grunted. “He’s the king. He’s controlling them.”

  Aunt Temperance turned and kicked the nearest crate. If it hurt—and it must have, Ozzie thought—she didn’t show it. “I believe there was a promise of tea,” she snarled between clenched teeth.

  Miss Mongo made a motion that might have been a nod, then burbled over to a hot plate in the corner of the room. She began puttering with the kettle while Fusselbone and Mr. Whisk seemed to suddenly discover a keen interest in their feet, then the corners of the ceiling—basically anywhere that allowed them to avoid eye contact with Aunt Temperance.

  Ozzie turned in bewilderment to Fidget. “What’s going on here?” he whispered.

  “I’m not sure,” Fidget whispered back. “But your aunt sure has them freaked out. Don’t you think?”

  Ozzie wasn’t sure what to think anymore. Aunt Temperance wasn’t a threatening person. She let Ozzie’s parents boss her around all the time. But now, as he stared at Aunt Temperance, he suddenly became conscious of just how wild, unkempt, and possibly deranged she appeared. Her glasses were askew and—uncharacteristically—there wasn’t a braid, bun, or knot to keep her hair pinned in place, leaving it to stick out in every direction. Of course, they all looked pretty rough, but it was the emotion boiling inside of Aunt Temperance that set her apart. Her entire body had turned rigid, her hands were balled into a pair of trembling fists, and there was heat rising in her cheeks that could make a teakettle jealous.

  That was when it occurred to Ozzie. Yes, he had braved pirates, motos, and magic hunters to get here—and a flea-bitten Revellian monkey, too—but so had Aunt Temperance. Ozzie had endured these things in order to escape boarding school and return to Zoone, but she had done it to find Mercurio. To save him. Now everyone was telling her that he was a villain.

  “Hey, Quoxx to Ozzie,” Fidget prodded. “Where did you go?”

  “Everything’s backward,” he murmured. It was like the first time he had pic
ked up a manga and realized it read right to left. All this time, he had been reading Aunt Temperance incorrectly, too.

  “Okay, luv,” Miss Mongo announced, bustling over to thrust a cup into Aunt Temperance’s hands. “That’ll fix you. Anyone else for a spot?”

  No one replied, except for Tug, who gave an eager purr, prompting Miss Mongo to set a bowl down for him and fill it to the brim.

  Aunt Temperance sat down, took a long sip from her cup, then closed her eyes and released a luxuriant sigh. “Okay,” she said. “That’s better.” Then she narrowed her gaze at the members of the Underground crew and said, “So, tell me. How am I responsible for what’s occurring here?”

  Fusselbone began wringing his paws.

  “I believe the word you used was ‘preposasterous,’” Aunt Temperance said. “It must be a dire situation if we must concoct words that otherwise don’t exist.” She took a purposeful sip of tea.

  “Everything’s changed—for the worse, my dear lady, the worse!” Fusselbone burst out. “The motos have taken over and Kla—Mer—well, we think—hold on!”

  He fumbled through a nearby crate and pulled out an old photo. The frame was chipped and the glass a spider web of cracks. The photo itself showed a much younger Aunt Temperance, entwined in Mercurio’s arms.

  Aunt Temperance gasped. “Where did you get that?”

  “That’s Lady Zoone’s photo,” Captain Cho said. “I’ve seen it in her study.”

  “Me kitchen girl Piper ended up with it,” Miss Mongo explained. “Happened after you went missin’, Cap’n. After Klaxon took over the station. I sent Piper up to Lady Zoone’s tower with some soup, but Klaxon wouldn’t let her deliver it. He was sittin’ there like he owned the place, broodin’ and mutterin’ over that photo.”

  “Piper tried to get through—she did, she did!” Fusselbone jabbered. “But Klaxon chased her away!”

  “But not before hurling the photo at her,” Mr. Whisk added. “Piper hid it her apron and passed it on to us.”

  “Somethin’ about that photo that Klaxon found upsettin’,” Miss Mongo said. “Look at the inscription.” She snatched the photo out of Fusselbone’s hand and flipped the frame over.