by Steve Cole
“All right, playtime’s over!” Emperor Nero’s voice came crackling over her war-wagon’s communicator. “Go back to the garages. The audience are ready to take their seats, and I want your chariots to come as a surprise …”
Bo stuck her chariot into reverse and sighed. “They’ll be a surprise all right,” she said.
“Time’s up, McMoo,” snarled Lanista, tightening his grip on Pat’s hoof. “There’s just an hour to go before the show starts. Everyone’s taking their seats. I want that booster now.”
“All right, all right, don’t get your toga in a twist,” said McMoo. “I’ve finished!” He picked up the booster and crossed to the large engine hanging from its wires in the middle of the chamber. He clipped it onto the side, then pressed a button on a remote control. The engine throbbed and roared into noisy life.
“Right then,” shouted McMoo over the din. “We’ll just let it warm up a bit …”
“Activate the booster,” said T-117 impatiently.
“Yes,” snapped Lanista. “I want to fit it to a war-wagon before the show starts – if it works, that is.”
“If it works?” McMoo looked shocked. “What a cheek! I’ve made it five times more powerful than your silly scientists ever could. Take a look at this!”
He jabbed his hoof against the remote and switched on the booster. With a colossal bang, a huge jet of fire zoomed out – sending the entire engine flying up in the air! It snapped through its supporting wires and smashed into the stone roof of the workshop, as if trying to burrow its way out into the Circus above. Scientists and smelters squealed in a panic. T-117 and Lanista staggered back as rubble rained down and the whole room shook.
“Time for action, Pat!” shouted McMoo. He grabbed one of the wires now dangling from the crumbling ceiling, swung on it like a rope – and smashed right into the ter-moo-nator, sending him flying!
At the same time, Pat twisted free of Lanista’s grip and butted him in the belly. The water buffalo snarled in fury and was about to charge – when a lump of falling stone conked him on the head. He fell to the floor in a daze.
“Good work!” McMoo shouted, switching off the engine before the whole roof came down. “Now, run!”
The two of them charged out of the workshop.
“Come back!” hollered T-117.
“Not likely!” McMoo shouted as they ran off down the gloomy tunnel.
“Well done, Professor!” cried Pat. “You tricked them!”
“Only partly,” said McMoo. “The booster works properly now, and it really is fifty per cent more powerful.”
A heavy clanking noise started up behind them. The ter-moo-nator was running after them! McMoo and Pat forced themselves to run even faster.
“Our only chance is to destroy those war-wagons before they enter the arena,” McMoo panted. “If the F.B.I. fit them all with power boosters, they will never be stopped!”
The professor and Pat ran as fast as they could. They followed the sound of roaring engines all the way to the Circus garages. Gleaming war-wagons were lined up in front of a huge gateway, their engines growling, ready and waiting to enter the arena.
“Everybody out!” McMoo yelled. Not stopping for breath, he lowered his horns and charged at the nearest war-wagon’s spiky rubber wheel, bursting it with a noisy hiss of air. “Showtime is over.”
“Right!” shouted Pat, forcing open the door of the wagon with his horns and dragging out the surprised cow driver. “These wagons must never leave this garage!”
“Oh, but they will!” came a grinding, mechanical growl from behind them. T-117 had caught them up! He aimed his death ray and opened fire …
Chapter Eleven
ASSAULT AND BUTTERY
McMoo and Pat dived for cover from the burning heat. “Hide behind a war-wagon, Pat!” McMoo shouted. “He won’t dare open fire and risk damaging one of them.”
“OK, Professor,” said Pat, pointing behind them. “But what about those guards? Their swords and daggers won’t hurt the war-wagons, but they’ll turn us into pin-cushions!”
McMoo whirled round to find a dozen armed Romans were running towards them! “We’re trapped,” he cried. “If the guards don’t get us, the ter-moo-nator will!”
Then, suddenly, with a roar of engines and a screech of whizzing tyres, one of the war-wagons came zooming towards them in reverse.
“And now we’re going to get squished!” Pat groaned, closing his eyes …
But the chariot rushed past them – and crashed into T-117! With a loud bump and an electronic moo, he went flying into the garage wall.
“Jump on board!” yelled the cow at the wheel of the war-wagon, sticking her head out of the window.
It was Little Bo!
“Nice work, Bo!” cried McMoo, charging over to the chariot and jumping on board to give her a hug. “I’ve been so worried about you!”
“I’m still worried about her,” said Pat as he wriggled into the driver’s cabin beside Bo and the professor. “And us too for that matter!”
“All Elite Officers,” screamed T-117. “Get the cow traitors in that war-wagon! Stop them! Squish them! Smash them!”
“I see what you mean,” yelled Bo, stamping on the accelerator. “Time to get out of here!”
The war-wagon sped towards the huge garage gates – and knocked them down with a splintering crash. Then the chariot’s chunky tyres kicked up huge clouds of dust as it shot off around the track. The audience were still taking their seats, and they had never seen anything like a war-wagon before. Some cheered, many screamed, and several hundred fainted on the spot.
“Stop it!” shouted Nero, waving his fist at Bo. “You’ve ruined my big build-up! My amazing intro! I was up all night rehearsing it!”
Bo blew a raspberry at him. “Professor,” she said, “we’ve got to stop the F.B.I. from splatting Nero and the rulers of Rome with the war-wagons’ weapons – before we’re splatted ourselves!”
“Pat told me his plan as we hoofed it down here,” said McMoo. “I only hope it works …”
But even as he spoke, the other working war-wagons came roaring out into the arena. Their huge spiky wheels tore up the track, their armoured shells shunted against each other as their drivers rushed to obey T-117’s orders – to stop, squish and smash the runaway war-wagon.
“If they want a chase, I’ll give them one!” shouted Bo. McMoo and Pat gasped in alarm as she jiggled the joystick this way and that, throwing them from side to side as they skidded all over the track. Their war-wagon’s tyres threw up a dust storm, and the crowd’s cheering turned to choking. The thick yellow cloud blinded the drivers of the wagons right behind them. They smashed into each other, then crashed against the long strip of stone in the centre of the arena.
“Wa-heyyy!” yelled Bo. “Three down, seven to go!”
“Change of orders!” T-117’s voice rattled out over every war-wagon’s speakers. “Abandon chase. Set butter bazookas to full blast and curdle cannons to critical. Open fire on sector alpha-one. Repeat, sector alpha-one!”
“Oh no,” cried McMoo. “Where’s that?”
“Nero’s private box and the seats underneath it,” Bo told him. “And with seven war-wagons, the F.B.I. can’t miss!”
“I hope they can’t, anyway,” said Pat.
“What?” Bo frowned. “What do you mean?”
McMoo was smiling. “Because Pat’s plan depends on these wagons scoring a direct hit!”
“You’ve both gone crazy!” Bo complained. “In case you’d forgotten, the F.B.I. is going to butter-blitz and curdle Rome’s most important people!”
Pat laughed and pointed through the dust clouds. “Not if something else gets in their way!”
Bo stared in amazement as the war-wagon burst through the dust … to reveal that the seats below the emperor’s box were crammed full of hundreds and hundreds of tough, mean bull gladiators!
“But I don’t get it,” said Bo. “What are they doing there?”
 
; “Lanista gave Bessium a list of all the V. I. P.s he wanted her to bring along,” Pat explained. “I just added a line at the end – But only if there’s room once you’ve brought all the nasty dressed-up bulls from the cattle market!”
“And with all this dust blocking his view, old robo-chops the ter-poo-nator hasn’t noticed!” Bo laughed. “They’ll be zapping their own army! And I might as well be the first to … open fire!”
Bo waggled her horns and the war-wagon’s butter bazooka burst into life. Gallons of slippery sludge gushed from the gun. With a nudge of her udder she set the curdle cannons going too. Super-sour and stinky dairy destruction rained down on the gladiator bulls. They coughed and spluttered and slid about all over the place.
“Us not care!” mooed Brutus. “Us stink anyway!”
Some of the crowd thought the attack was part of the show, and started to laugh and cheer.
“Direct hit!” shouted Bo, driving away as the other war-wagons joined in the attack.
“Change of orders again!” squawked the ter-moo-nator’s voice over the speakers as he realized his mistake. But before he could say another word, Professor McMoo punched a hole in the communicator and touched two wires together. A high-pitched whistle came out of the speakers.
“Ha!” said McMoo with satisfaction. “I’ve just transmitted a negative wave that should jam T-117’s signals. Now he can’t tell his drivers what to do.”
“So they’ll keep on firing!” Bo realized, parking her war-wagon a safe distance away so they could watch the action. “Those gladiators were trained to fight – let’s see how they do!”
The butter bombardment and clots of curdled cream kept raining down on the gladiators. Bessium Barmus was skidding around in front of them, coated in the stuff. The smell was suffocating.
“Pack it in!” Bessium yelled uselessly at the war-wagons. “You’re spoiling it for the emperor’s Very Important Guests! Go and attack the cheap seats over there!”
“Yes, stop it, you rotten lot!” screamed Nero, hopping up and down with rage on the balcony of his box. “My big show is ruined!” But then he was hit in the chest by a cream-cheese blast, and with a horrified shout, he fell! “Arrrgh …”
“Look!” gasped Pat.
“What a horrible sight!” cried Bo.
BOING! Bessium’s billowing belly had broken Nero’s fall! They both flopped to the sticky ground.
T-117 came clanking up. He raised his ray gun, but a butter-burst knocked it flying. “Ticket woman, you have brought the wrong people,” he groaned, clutching his metal head as he was sprayed and splattered. “You were meant to bring the wisest people in all of Rome!”
“Only if there was room, metal-mush!” Bessium weakly showed him her soggy scroll. “See?”
By now, some of the gladiators were fighting back. “Us can take on anything!” roared Brutus.
“Me LIKE the taste of rotten butter,” his friend revealed, and many of the other gladiators seemed to agree with him.
“Stampede! Stampede!” shouted Brutus. The battle-cattle slipped and splashed but kept smashing up the war-wagons. They slashed the tyres with their spears and swords. They broke the windows with their bare, buttery hooves.
“Everything has gone wrong!” cried T-117, pitching forward into a putrid puddle of milky butter. “We have been tricked!”
“Yep!” called Professor McMoo as he, Pat and Bo burst out of their war-wagon. “You certainly have!”
“But you shall not enjoy the victory, McMoo,” sneered the ter-moo-nator.
He pointed with a slippery, smelly hoof back towards the garage. Suddenly, a war-wagon jumped out from inside like a massive metal monster. The watching crowds gasped with amazement. One of the wagon’s wheels was punctured, but that hardly seemed to matter. Blasts of flame shot from its base as it jumped through the air once more – heading towards the professor and his friends. And a furious face crowned with enormous horns was glaring out at them through the window.
“Lanista!” said Bo grimly.
McMoo nodded. “He’s fitted that war-wagon with my mega-thrust power booster!”
“Then he’s faster than us,” Pat realized. “And that thing can chase us anywhere. There’s nowhere to hide!”
Chapter Twelve
CHARIOTS OF FIRE
“Don’t give up yet, Pat,” said McMoo, pulling a remote control from his toga.
Bo frowned. “This is no time to be watching TV, Professor!”
But Pat recognized the gadget at once. “That’s the control you used when you set off the power booster!”
“Correct!” said McMoo, pointing it at Lanista’s war-wagon as it leaped towards them. “And once it gets into range …”
The professor hit a big red button.
Nothing happened.
Lanista’s war-wagon jumped again, flying through the air and crashing down on top of the other war-wagons, sending gladiator cows slipping and scattering. He was almost on top of Pat, Bo and McMoo.
“Um, Professor?” said Bo, blowing a gum bubble. “When exactly will it get into range?”
“Good question,” said McMoo. With a cackle of triumph, Lanista hit the boosters once more and rose up in the air to crush them … “And here’s a good answer!”
The professor hit the button again, and the boosters blasted into fiery life. They blazed at least ten times more brightly, sending the war-wagon spiralling out of control, high up in the air above the arena.
McMoo winked at his friends. “You didn’t think I’d actually give the F.B.I. a super-improved mega-thrust power booster without fitting a self-destruct switch, did you?”
The war-wagon tumbled helplessly like litter in the wind as the thruster jets slowly burned themselves out. The crowds yelled with fear, fleeing the arena.
“Whoooooooaaaaa!” yelled Lanista as he was sent somersaulting out through the window …
“He’s gonna go splat!” Bo cried.
But in fact, Lanista landed in the sticky, slippery arms of the ter-moo-nator – and they both collapsed into the smelliest, most disgusting puddle of gunk in the whole arena. Moments later, the F.B.I. agents were trampled by their own army, running away in panic.
“Oi! Posh-chops!” bellowed Bessium Barmus as Lanista splashed about in the buttery soup. “What about that bag of gold you promised me? I want it now!”
“Mission abort …” croaked T-117, skidding about as he tried to stand on his silver-platter time machine. “Retreat! Mission abort …”
“Wait for me!” gurgled Lanista, splashing and sliding in the slime until he grabbed hold of the ter-moo-nator’s leg. Then they both disappeared in a haze of black smoke.
“Nooooooo!” wailed Bessium.
“We beat them!” Pat cheered. “We won!”
Bo pointed up at the war-wagon wheeling through the late evening sky. “But what goes up, must come down …”
As McMoo, Pat and Bo watched, the thruster jets spluttered and stopped. The war-wagon dropped from the sky like a stone. It smashed into the middle of the arena and exploded in an enormous fireball – which soon set fire to the empty wooden seats at the back of the arena.
“Uh-oh,” said Pat as the flames started to spread. “This is bad news.”
“It’s not just news,” McMoo told him. “It’s history,” he beamed down at his two friends. “Pat, Bo – I think we just started the Great Fire of Rome!”
Bo shot him a look. “Typical!”
“You said the fire started near the Circus,” Pat recalled.
“And look over there,” said McMoo, smiling.
Nero had dragged himself inside one of the broken war-wagons and was wrestling with the dead controls. “Work, curse you!” he shouted. “You’re meant to be making me Emperor of the World!”
“Emperor of the Losers, more like,” said Bessium, with a face more sour than the muck she was splashing in. “Stop fiddling about with that thing and get out of here!”
“So the historians were right,”
said McMoo. “Nero did fiddle while Rome burned!”
The fire spread to another abandoned war-wagon, which blew up before their eyes. “Come on,” said Bo, eyeing the remaining crowds as they scattered in fright. “Everyone else is running for it. Let’s make like bananas – and split!”
McMoo, Pat and Bo hurried away through the streets of Rome towards the Time Shed. A huge cloud of black smoke hung over the arena.
“The fire will do untold damage to Rome,” said McMoo sadly. “But at least it will also wipe away all trace of the F.B.I.’s evil plot. Their underground agents will be long gone by now.”
“What happens to Nasty Nero?” asked Pat.
“He builds an enormous golden palace for himself in the middle of the burned-down bit,” said McMoo. “That doesn’t make him very popular. He comes to a rather sticky end, I’m afraid.”
“Stickier than all that curdled milk and cheese and butter?” Bo grinned. “I don’t believe it!”
They got inside the Time Shed, and the professor quickly set the controls. “Right,” he said. “Better get back to our own time and tell Yak the good news …”
“Yak has heard the good news, team!” came a gruff, familiar voice from the Time Shed’s computer screen. “And he’s smelled it too, let me tell you.”
“Yak!” Bo cheered. “How’s it going?”
“Good, thanks to you!” The black bull smiled and stepped aside to reveal T-117 and Lanista lying in a heap on a marble floor. “These stinky guys just turned up from nowhere, weak as kittens.”
“We spoiled all their plans!” said Bo proudly.
Pat was puzzled. “But how did they end up with Yak?”
“In all the confusion, T-117 must have reversed the settings on his time machine to get away,” McMoo explained. “It took him straight back to the time and place he’d visited last.”
“Which was the Palace of Great Moos in 2550!” Bo grinned. “They landed right in Yak’s lap!”
“And now they’ll go to Bull Prison for a long time,” said Yak. “Well done, team. You did the C.I.A. proud today. And here’s your reward …”