by Paul Cude
"That must have been some special mantra to change you into something that small," ventured Peter, changing the subject.
"Apparently, the Roman dragons had a special knack of doing it, almost famed for it you could say. But like so much information in our world, it's been lost over a period of time. As a race we're not renowned for storing information, or even looking back into our history and valuing it for what it was. It's such a shame we can't do that. We've lost so much already that's so valuable. And what's most ironic is that our charges, the humans with whom you and I mix on a daily basis, they can do all of that. But we can't. What on earth does that say about us as dragons?"
Peter admired the way Tank got passionate about all sorts of different subjects. The depth of his feelings always shone through.
"Anyway," he perked up, "if I feel miserable about our lack of customers, I can always visualise you standing in the front of the shop in just your briefs."
As Tank fought back tears of laughter, Peter held his head in his hands, blushing with embarrassment,
"Yeah, thanks for that. I'm sure it will always help me to think of you as a spider."
"Anyhow, what brings you to our famed establishment on this bright, sunny day, Pete?" said Tank, spreading his wings wide and turning around.
"I wanted to talk to you about my work, and... Richie."
"Ah... I thought it might have something to do with that. She told me on Saturday night that you'd argued, and why," Tank said, sitting back in one of the oversized chairs, his tail hitting the floor with a THUMP.
Peter slouched in the opposite chair, letting his wings flop over the sides until the tips touched the floor. The two friends started chatting, with Peter explaining to Tank all about Manson and how he seemed to be manipulating Al Garrett. He also tried to convey his belief that Manson was dangerous, as well as his regret for falling out with Richie. For his part, Tank listened patiently for over forty minutes, considering carefully everything that he'd heard before he spoke.
"I think the first thing I should say, Pete, is that Richie feels the same way about your argument. She told me exactly that, and wants to go straight back to being best friends again. So stop worrying about that."
This brought a toothy dragon smile to his face, accompanied by two tiny dribbles of smoky flame from his nostrils. The realisation that he'd been worrying about nothing dawned on him, making him recognise quite how stupid he'd been.
"As for Manson," Tank continued, "You must understand, Pete, that it's very hard for me to gauge exactly what kind of person he is without having met him, and although some of the things you've described are a bit odd, perhaps Richie's right and you've just gotten off on the wrong foot."
Peter sat silently and nodded. Having learnt his lesson with one friend, he had no intention of falling out with the other.
"Or maybe you're right. Maybe Manson is a conman or a criminal and is planning some kind of crime. Either way, it's not as bad as you think. If that's the case, you should have no problem apprehending him at the appropriate time. After all, your superior dragon intellect should give you a huge advantage against even the cleverest human. Remember, no dragon in our history has ever been bested by a human. You're not about to become the first. This guy, if he's up to no good, stands absolutely no chance. And it's not like he's anything other than a human... right? You and Richie would both have noticed that."
Peter let out a long sigh.
"He's not a dragon. It's just that... that... that... well, he's different, almost... evil. I can't really explain it, but that's the only way to describe it."
"As long as he's not a dragon, you've got nothing to worry about," added Tank reassuringly.
A harsh coughing noise from just inside the door surprised the pair. Both turned to find the master mantra maker standing there, a stern look on his face, his square spectacles dangling from the end of his nose.
"I sometimes wonder if you're worthy of being my apprentice," he announced, his velvety smooth voice unable to hide the real edge his words carried.
Tank was used to the old dragon's eccentricities and sometimes mischievousness, but here and now he knew his employer had something more on his mind.
"If it's what I said about knowing my job's safe, I... apologise," said Tank, nervously.
A small frown, practically unnoticeable, developed behind his spectacles.
"No it's not. But I'll bear that in mind," growled the old dragon.
"Why don't you tell your friend about the mantra you found last month? You know, the one that produced the purple emperor butterfly, or as you like to call it apatura iris."
Peter smiled as he recognised the tone in Gee Tee's voice which implied Tank had been showing off with the butterfly's Latin name. Having spent decades alongside Tank in the nursery ring, nobody knew better than Peter did just how annoying it could be to spend ages learning about a plant or an animal, just to have Tank pop up out of nowhere, knowing everything about it, including its correct name. Clearly whatever had happened with the mantra, Gee Tee had taken offence at Tank's special talent.
"Would you perhaps prefer it if I told him?" Gee Tee asked Tank, in a tone that was more an order than a request. Tank sat dead still and nodded his head.
"Well, young Bentwhistle, one day my apprentice here was going through an assortment of Egyptian mantras, out on the shop floor. I was away at the time, trying to procure some high quality ink, which with every passing year gets harder and harder to find. So anyway, spotting one that he recognised, or so he thought, my clever apprentice decided to use the mantra to bring forth the aforementioned emperor butterfly. Reciting the mantra correctly, for it was nearly all in ancient Egyptian, and adding all his belief, he managed to produce a stunning emperor butterfly that duly followed him around the shop as he worked."
From the way in which Tank was squirming with discomfort, Peter had absolutely no idea where this was going at all.
"Now I'm sure I don't have to tell you about my apprentice's love of everything living," the old shopkeeper declared, looking directly into Peter's eyes. Peter nodded.
"When I returned to the store later that morning, I could scarcely believe my eyes. Flying freely around the shop was an Egyptian morphbeetle, one of the most dangerous beings the world has ever seen. And to make matters worse, there was my clever little apprentice, petting it at every opportunity. Needless to say we had to call in the King's Guards to get rid of it, what with it being a class nine mantra and all. We're not nearly well enough equipped to do it ourselves. Eventually they managed to facilitate its capture and subsequent termination, but in doing so, delighted in wrecking half my shop. I thought, at the very least, that episode would have provided a valuable lesson to my ever so clever apprentice, but from having overheard part of your conversation, it would appear I'm very much mistaken.
Tank, sitting up much straighter, tried to put the pieces of the puzzle together, the lesson, and the relevance to the conversation. Try as he might, with his employer bearing over him, his mind just went blank.
"For Bentwhistle's sake I shall put you out of your misery. The valuable lesson you should have learned, was that evil comes in many guises, not always visible to everyone. For you, the butterfly was as real as it gets, and you couldn't see beyond that, but as soon as I came through the door I recognised it for what it truly was," Gee Tee sighed as he finished.
Peter thought he knew what the old dragon meant.
"So what you're saying is that I could be right about Manson and that he could be immensely evil and dangerous, even though nobody else can see it."
"That's one way to put it I suppose," offered up the old dragon. "But perhaps you should expand your narrow way of thinking somewhat. Tank thought the butterfly was real, but it wasn't. What if this 'Manson' is not all that he appears to be? What if, like the butterfly, something much more sinister lies beneath?"
"Are you saying he could be a dragon?" asked Peter, wide-eyed.
Tank quickly butte
d in and said,
"But that's just not possible. They would both sense it if he were a dragon."
"Would they indeed...?" answered Gee Tee, with just the tiniest glint in his eyes. "If history teaches us anything, it's that you can always expect the unexpected, my naive apprentice. Dragons throughout the ages have hidden themselves before, and I don't doubt at some point they will do it again."
"Really?" gasped Peter, fascinated.
"Of course," added the shopkeeper. "It can be done. It's very difficult, but it can be done. Anyway, I'm sorry to cut this meeting short, but I need Tank, I'm afraid. We have many more tomes to sort out, starting with the 'Mechanical Repairs' section, after you have shown your friend out," Gee Tee told Tank, before turning to face Peter.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, child. Consider yourself welcome any time. It's not like we're busy here or anything. I hope you sort out your little problem at work," he added, before bowing and heading back off into the twisted maze of dusty old bookcases.
Peter rose from his chair, having to wiggle about a bit to get his tail out of the hole, and followed his friend back through the shop, remembering to collect the remains of his human clothes. The two friends bade each other farewell, with Tank returning to work and Peter heading off to the monorail station, more suitably attired this time.
That night Peter sat in front of the television, trying to unwind. His visit to the Mantra Emporium had been absolutely fascinating in so many different ways. A tiny part of him envied Tank for working there, but not the bit about being transformed into a spider. Never that. Learning from Gee Tee that it was possible, however hard, for a dragon to conceal their dragon-ness was just breathtaking, and something that had never been mentioned at the nursery ring. Eventually heading upstairs just after ten, his head spinning every which way with thoughts from his astounding afternoon, before he nodded off, he vowed to himself to keep an open mind about... everything.
7 Security Sweep (Sooty or Sue?)
Peter went through his normal routine the next morning, deciding to send his consciousness off to get a copy of the Daily Telepath. He didn't get it every day, purely because he was too lazy, but today was important because the details of the Indigo Warriors' first Global Cup match should have been announced. Sending his mind off in a kind of autopilot way, it wasn't long before it had retrieved the paper and he was able to access it. The first page looked like this:
'Wow,' Peter thought, after studying the Global Cup section. ‘The Warriors are playing the Coral Rock'ards.’ It would be a tough game, but as a one-off contest, he was sure they could win and progress to the semi final.
'I wonder if Tank’s tried to get any tickets yet?’ Arriving at work, he buried his head in some timesheets, finding himself missing the old atmosphere that used to prevail before Manson had arrived. Only a relatively short time ago, he'd have known where to go for a joke and a laugh, but at the moment you couldn't even buy a smile from any of his staff, let alone a comic moment.
An hour or so later, his phone rang. He promptly picked it up to find that it was Dr Island, head of the scientists on the Cropptech industrial site. Peter prided himself on the fact that he got on pretty well with the heads of department, or had done up until the arrival of Manson.
"Hi Peter, it's Sheridan Island here from industrial," came the polite voice down the phone.
"Good morning Dr Island," replied Peter. "What can I do for you today?"
"Could you come on over please? We seem to be having a bit of a problem with some of the guards."
"What sort of problem?" demanded Peter, keen to get to the bottom of things.
"They seem to be conducting some sort of security sweep, and it's interfering with our work rather a lot."
"I don't understand," muttered Peter. "I've authorised no such thing."
"Uhhhh... I don't think it's you," said Dr Island. "According to the guards, the delightful Major Manson is behind it all," she added, dripping with sarcasm.
Letting out a long sigh that clearly wasn't missed by Dr Island, he told her he was on his way, before hanging up, grabbing his coat and heading out of the door, covering the five minute walk in just over two, keen to sort out the problem. On his way, he wondered just what the hell Manson was up to. Did he not realise these scientists were a special breed of people? Brilliant in their respective fields, they carried out some of the most critical work on the site, and Peter had long since learned from experience, and those around him, that it was best to try and let them get on with their painstaking and exacting work with as little fuss as possible.
Getting thoroughly drenched, despite his coat, Peter arrived at the industrial unit and made his way into the interior. His senses always seemed to go a little wayward whenever he was here. On one hand the environment was very clinical and sterile. On the other, massive machines zipped and turned, spraying hot metal and a bonfire night's worth of giant, molten sparks all over the place. Was it a laboratory? Was it a factory? Somewhere in between, his brain reluctantly told him.
Amongst all the machinery, scientists in gleaming white lab coats stood around in disbelief, looking on as a dozen guards wandered in and out of all the heavy equipment. Peter walked over to Dr Island and put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I'll try and sort this out straight away."
She nodded and tried to force a smile, but given that she looked like she was about to pull all her hair out, it came out as more of a grimace.
Striding over to the guard who looked reluctantly in charge, someone Peter knew as a hardworking and decent man, Peter reluctantly asked,
"What's going on, Phillips?"
"Just following orders, boss," Phillips replied anxiously.
"We can't just come in here and interrupt their work whenever we like," Peter whispered, knowing how far the sound travelled in this environment.
"But that's exactly what we CAN do," boomed a snarling voice from the opposite corner of the industrial unit, over sixty feet away. Everyone looked around as the voice reverberated throughout the equipment. Out from behind some of the larger machinery, stepped Manson, menacingly, tapping his walking stick on the polished white floor as he did so.
"Did you not understand when Mr Garrett put me in charge, Bentwhistle? I am in charge of security now, and I can perform a security sweep of any part of the complex whenever I like. Do you understand, Bentwhistle?" Manson used Peter's surname as if it were some kind of embarrassing fungal disease you might have in your unmentionables.
"Yes sir, I understand," ventured Peter, humiliated, with the dozen or so guards and ten or so scientists looking on.
"You had better," added Manson, steel in his voice, "or you'll be looking for a new job. Now, what I've seen today is nothing short of disgraceful. The security here is woefully inadequate, laughable in fact. Any of these workers," he said, pointing at the group of scientists, "could smuggle equipment or valuables out of here at practically any time."
"Now you listen here..." started Dr Island, looking as though she was about to erupt. "How dare you accuse any of my staff of impropriety? Every last item is always accounted for, and my staff are all as honest as the day is long."
"Have you quite finished, WOMAN?" Manson sneered with contempt.
Peter and everyone else couldn't believe what they were hearing. In all the time Peter had worked there, he'd never heard anyone speak with such rudeness, and by the look on the faces of those around him, they hadn't either.
"I'm not standing for this a second longer!" raved Dr Island, furious. "Nobody speaks to my staff that way, especially not some jumped up, snotty nosed ex-officer. I'll have you know that I've worked here for over thirty years and I've never been treated like this. Al Garrett is going to hear about this, straight away," and with that she stomped off out of the building.
Manson just stood there, twisting his finger in the air.
"One down, several hundred to go," he said grinning from ear to ear. "You can all get back to work," he said
to the remaining scientists. "I will be introducing my own specialised guards for duty here, so you had all better watch yourselves."
The scientists, clearly distressed, made it look as though they were going about their jobs, but were more likely waiting for Dr Island to come back from speaking to Al Garrett.
"You can all resume your normal duties," Manson told the guards, who all dispersed in the blink of an eye. He really couldn't blame them. Turning, Manson looked Peter straight in the eye.
"I wouldn't bank on the good doctor having too much success if I were you."
As Manson left, Peter hoped with all his heart that Dr Island's explanation of events would be enough to see Manson on his way.
How wrong he was.
Returning to his office, eating his lunch and non-stop into the afternoon he wondered just how Dr Island had gotten on. He didn't have to wait very long. Noticing a new email had just arrived in his in box, he opened it, anticipating news of Manson's sudden departure.
One click of his mouse had him aghast. Al Garrett's email to all department heads read that Dr Island had been fired this morning for a severe breach of discipline and that without a natural successor, that department would be run in the interim by Major Manson.
Peter had assumed his day just couldn't get any worse. It turned out that he was wrong. A phone call later that afternoon informed him that Chief Security Co-ordinator, Mark Hiscock, another dragon and his direct superior whose shoes he'd filled, being off long term sick, had died last night. Shocked to his core, Peter had no idea what to do. It's rare that dragons die. Really rare. He'd never known anyone, human or dragon, who'd passed away. He remained in his office for the rest of the afternoon, overcome with grief.
8 The Faint Whiff of... Octopus
Unable to concentrate on anything at all, Peter felt like he was in a constant daze. The first thing he'd done the following day was check the telepathic papers for details of Mark Hiscock's demise. Sure enough, in two of the more reputable editions he'd found obituaries for his deceased colleague. Holding with dragon custom, the funeral would take place exactly ten days after his death. Undoubtedly, dragons who'd known him would attend, probably from all across the globe. Peter would most certainly be going to not only that, but the human service as well.