Murder, My Tweet

by Bruce Hale

  “Blackmail is just how I finance my grand design,” said the screech owl.

  “But why?”

  “Because allowance money can only stretch so far.”

  Our pathway leveled out. This part of the tunnel was muddier than the chamber above. I tried to memorize its twists and turns.

  “So what’s the expensive scheme?” I asked. “A trip to Bora-Bora? The complete set of Punky-Man trading cards?”

  Oliver’s steps slowed. “Oh, just a little thing I call Science Project Number Nine. Haven’t you noticed my little creations around campus?”

  Creations? Then it hit me—robots in the cafeteria, robots at the crosswalk, robots carting me around. I blinked. “You mean . . . ?”

  “Yes,” said Oliver, “I’m building a robot army to take over the school!”

  “This school?” We entered another chamber, whose ceiling disappeared in shadows. “But why?” I asked again.

  The owl turned to me and shrugged. “How else am I going to become the world’s youngest evil genius? You gotta have a robot army—all the best criminal masterminds do.”

  I couldn’t argue with his logic. (Since he was about as logical as a dodo bird dreaming of getting into Harvard.)

  The three robots hooked my net to a huge mechanical claw. With great relish, Oliver fluttered to a control panel and punched some buttons.

  A metal arm lifted the claw, hoisting me into the air. It swung me toward a blocked-off corner of the chamber and dangled me above it.

  “Cool, huh?” he said. “I designed it myself, with some help from my study group.” His voice grew ominous. “And now, Chet Gecko, prepare to meet . . .”

  “My doom?” I said.

  “You’ll see,” said Oliver.

  And with that, the claw released a corner of the net. I dropped like an overripe papaya down into a metal holding cell.

  A dark shape stirred. I tensed.

  “Heya, PI,” said Natalie. “Come here often?”

  18

  Fresh Sprints of Bel-Lair

  Natalie huddled in a corner of the gloomy cell. I rushed to her.

  “Partner!” I said. “When I saw that red goo by the tree, I thought you—”

  “I know,” said Natalie. “Oliver cracked my disguise, and he had the Stench Bombs snatch me.”

  I looked her over. “But are you hurt? I mean, the blood . . .”

  She shook her head. “Red beetle jelly.”

  “Dang. I knew I should’ve tasted it.”

  Outside the metal box, Oliver chuckled. “I’ll leave you to your tearful reunion,” he said. “Chet and Natalie, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I—”

  “Eew!” said Natalie and I together.

  “And now it’s showtime,” said Oliver. “The school dance will see a performance in a million. When we attack, everyone will be doing the robot.”

  “But won’t that tick off your partners, the Stench Bombs?” I said.

  “Those bozos? They’re just pawns. Besides, they’ve got it coming; I saw them rip me off.” Oliver’s voice faded as he moved. “See you later, suckers.”

  And he was gone.

  “So what was it you wanted to tell me?” I said.

  “Huh?” said Natalie.

  “That note you sent. What did you find out?”

  Natalie spread a wing. “I found out where those missing batteries are going. You know, the ones you told me Maureen DeBree told you about?”

  “You’re telling me I told you she told me?” I shook my head. “That’s not important now.”

  “Oh, yes it is,” she said. “Oliver’s using those batteries in his robots.”

  “Oh. So . . . what does that tell us?”

  “It tells us we’ve gotta stop him,” said Natalie.

  “No duh,” I said. “But how?”

  I eyeballed the slick metal walls of our prison. Up, up they rose, to a—wait a second. The cell had no ceiling.

  “Natalie, are these walls electrified?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then how does he expect to keep us here?”

  Our eyes met. “Let’s go!” we said together.

  I climbed, and Natalie flapped her wings. This was almost too easy. Our heads poked over the wall, and—ba-POW!—a padded beam batted us back into the cell faster than a teacher’s pet at eraser-clapping time.

  Yup, too easy.

  “Ow.” I picked myself up off the hard floor. “That Oliver and his inventions.”

  Tinny robot laughter echoed in the chamber. Steel-plated punks.

  After a couple more tries, we had nothing to show for our efforts but bruises. The owl’s machine was too quick for us.

  “Okay,” said Natalie, “I’m ready for Plan B.”

  I rubbed my sore head. “Me, too. Any ideas?”

  Natalie paced. “Let’s see . . . we could make a crude shovel with buttons, pocket lint, and the stub of a pencil, and then tunnel out of here.”

  I rapped my knuckles on the floor. “Solid steel.” I sighed. “Too bad we can’t just trick the robots. They seem about as bright as a box of rocks.”

  “Now that’s an idea,” said Natalie.

  “Yeah, a dumb one. The robots only take orders from Oliver. To get them to obey, we’d have to . . .”

  “Sound like Oliver? Wicked cool,” said Natalie in the owl’s nerdy voice.

  You gotta hand it to those mockingbirds. They sure can mock.

  “Go to it, partner,” I said.

  Natalie-as-Oliver called out, “You there, robots!”

  “Yes, bzzz, master,” droned three robot voices.

  “Go to the control panel. Turn off the machine.”

  We heard a whirring as the robots obeyed, then a click. The chamber was plunged into darkness.

  “Yup,” I said. “Bright as a box of rocks.”

  After several more tries, Natalie got the three nut-and-bolt-heads to turn on the lights and turn off the guard machine. I scrambled up and over the wall, dropping to the muddy floor. Natalie glided down beside me.

  The robots swiveled our way, their eyes changing from green to red.

  “That doesn’t look good,” I said.

  “Bzzz, intruder alert,” said one robot.

  Natalie did her Oliver impression. “No, no. These are friends; let them go.”

  “Must, bzzz, stopintruders,” droned another robot. It blocked the door while the other two motored forward.

  “Dang,” I said. “Too bad you don’t look more like him.”

  “What, and give up this pretty face?” said Natalie.

  We retreated before the robots’ advance until the cold metal wall pressed against our backs.

  “Well,” I said, “when talk fails . . .”

  “Run like heck,” said Natalie.

  She flew up to perch on the cell’s edge. I scaled the metal slab and jumped from it to the cavern wall.

  “We’re safe up here,” I said. “At least those droids can’t climb.”

  The two robots below gave a hollow chuckle. At the touch of a button on their arms, suction cups sprouted like zits after a pizza-eating session.

  Thi-pock! Thi-pock!

  They began climbing the wall.

  “Yahhh!” Natalie and I cried. I jumped to the floor and darted for the entrance, with Natalie close behind. Together we rushed the doorway, bowling over the robot guard.

  “This way!” said Natalie, flying down the corridor.

  Her wing tips brushed the walls. I slipped and slid in the mud, trying to keep up. We charged through winding passages until my side ached.

  “Whoa,” I said, slowing down. “Let’s walk. We got a head start.”

  “Really?” Natalie landed.

  “Sure, I mean, how fast could those things possibly go?”

  Just then, an alarm bell clanged. A mechanical voice echoed in the tunnels: “Intruder alert! All-robots, bzzz, stopintruders!”

  Natalie turned to look at me. “So, Mr. Robo-Expert, any other bright ideas?”


  “Skedaddle!” I said.

  We stumbled up a flight of steps and down a corridor. The tunnel narrowed. Natalie couldn’t fly, so she ran with me. Then we hit a four-way intersection.

  “Which path?” said Natalie.

  I pointed left. “This one. I think.”

  “You think?”

  We pounded down the passageway. From above came a muffled, rhythmic thumping.

  “I’m almost sure this is it,” I said.

  Then we rounded a corner. I stopped short and Natalie skidded into me.

  “Wha—?” Her question fizzled out.

  Filling the corridor from wall to wall and stretching out of sight was a robot army. Each robot’s eyes glowed red, and their voice boxes boomed one cry:

  “Crush, mush, destroy!”

  And something told me they weren’t talking about the recyclables.

  19

  Robo-Bop

  Natalie and I cut and ran before the robot horde. When we returned to the intersection, robots filled two of the other passages. They advanced with a relentless whir, like a showroom full of vacuum cleaners gone berserk.

  “Rrrr!” they cried.

  “Wahhh!” we screamed.

  Only one path lay open to us. We took it at top speed.

  The tunnel broadened again as it rose. The thumping above boomed louder.

  “I think we’re almost out,” said Natalie.

  “Good,” I said. “’Cause they’re getting closer.”

  With the killer robots only yards behind us, we rounded a corner and reached the tunnel’s end. The dirt floor sloped up into the ceiling.

  “A dead end?!” said Natalie.

  “Unless you’re part earthworm,” I said.

  But as we drew nearer, cracks showed in the ceiling. Light streaming through these cracks revealed a trapdoor.

  “Push, Natalie!”

  We put our backs to the panel and shoved.

  The robots closed in.

  For a heart-stopping moment, the door stuck.

  Then it gave—wham! We tumbled out into an explosion of light and noise. Creatures writhed in agony to horrible sounds of destruction.

  “We’re too late!” I cried.

  “No,” said Natalie, “it’s just the dance.”

  Then the scene snapped into focus. A punk-rock frenzy gripped the cafeteria. Music pounded, kids gyrated, lights flashed, and chaperones winced.

  All this I glimpsed as we rolled away from the trapdoor and under the dancing feet. A chubby gopher nearly boogie-oogie-oogied onto my head. “Hey, watch it!” he said.

  Natalie and I struggled to our feet, just as screams filled the cafeteria. The robots burst forth. Kids scuttled away from the trapdoor as if Godzilla himself had just passed gas.

  “Aaieee!” Pandemonium broke loose.

  I spotted Oliver by the hatch. “Get the grownups!” he shouted to his machine army. The robots pushed through the mob of squealing kids and headed for the fringes of the room, where teachers and parents tried to restore order.

  Oddly enough, the Stench Bombs kept right on playing. Probably didn’t want to waste all that practice.

  “You! Gecko!” A green parakeet plowed through the crowd, straight at me. It was Anne Gwish, former client.

  “I’m a little busy right now,” I said. “Come back Monday.”

  She caught my arm. “No!” she squawked. “You let those awful robots in, and now they’re wrecking my dance!”

  “Your dance?” said Natalie.

  “Of course,” snapped Anne. “I organized it because it’s my destiny to dance with T-Bone, and for him to be my boyfriend.”

  I shot a look at Natalie. She raised her eyebrows and circled a feather tip beside her head in the universal sign for cuckoo.

  “The dance is falling apart,” screeched the parakeet. “Do something!”

  “Okay,” I said. “How about the mambo?”

  Anne Gwish gave an earsplitting “Scree-ahh!” and flew at the nearest droid, knocking it into the refreshment table. Mrs. Bagoong steadied the tubs of soup.

  Just then, somebody slammed the cafeteria doors—Clang! Clong!—trapping us all inside.

  “Chet, how do we stop the robots?” cried Natalie.

  “Beats me,” I said. “Sing ‘Mr. Roboto’?”

  She pulled me aside. “Think. They run on batteries . . .”

  Fangs bared, Principal Zero rushed past us toward the robots. Some helmet-heads were going to wish they hadn’t tangled with that particular kitty. Mr. Ratnose and Ms. Glick struggled with the waves of evil machines pouring from the trapdoor.

  “So how do we put the kibosh on their batteries?” I said.

  Natalie gave me a blank look. “Dunno. We haven’t studied batteries yet.”

  “Me, neither.” I scanned the mob scene. “Where’s a science nerd when you need one?”

  “Building a robot army?” said Natalie. She snagged my arm. “Come on!”

  We elbowed our way into the free-for-all, ducking robot punches. When I saw her target, I said, “Wait, that’s Kent Hoyt! He might be in on it.”

  Natalie shook her head. “No way. He’s the new sixth-grade science teacher.”

  When we reached him, the bobcat was clonking two robots’ heads together.

  “Mr. Hoyt,” I said, “how do you stop batteries from working?”

  “This is—unh!—no time to discuss your science project,” he said.

  A third robot jumped onto his back and wrapped its arms around his throat.

  “Please,” said Natalie. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “Try . . . salt water,” he choked out. Then Mr. Hoyt doubled over, flipping the robot into one of its companions—whump!

  We turned and shoved back through the crowd toward the kitchen.

  “Salt water,” I said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you got a C-minus in science?” said Natalie.

  “There’s that.”

  Natalie hopped to the kitchen door. “We’ll find lots of salt back here.”

  “Wait a minute.” I pointed at the tubs of soup on the refreshment tables. “There’s nothing saltier than Mrs. Bagoong’s wood-louse gumbo.”

  I leaped onto the table, dipped a bowl into the soup, and flung the brown goop onto the nearest robot. Its head turned and its red eyes flashed.

  “Rrr!” The mechanical monster dropped first-grade teacher Mrs. Toaden like a full diaper. It rushed toward me, arms waving.

  I hurdled over the table.

  “Look out, Chet!” cried Natalie. “It doesn’t like soup.”

  The droid chugged forward like a demented freight train.

  20

  Salt, With a Deadly Weapon

  The robot bore down on me like Doom in a Bucket. Its eyes gleamed and sharp hooks shot from its hands. “Crush! Mush! Destroy!”

  Then its pace slowed, and its arms fell to its sides. Two feet away, it ground to a halt with a last “rrr . . .” The robot’s red eyes winked out.

  “It worked!” I cried. “I’m a genius!”

  “Oh, sure,” said Natalie, “if most geniuses are barely passing math class.”

  I surveyed the roomful of battling ’bots. “Natalie, there’s too many of ’em. How do we dump soup on all those droids?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Natalie flapped her wings and sailed over the crowd to the stage, where the Stench Bombs had finally stopped playing. In one smooth move, she swooped down and snatched the microphone off its stand.

  “Robots, hear me!” she boomed in her best Oliver impression. “Everyone to the back of the room for refueling. Move it!”

  At their creator’s voice, the robots stopped their rampage. “Bzzz, yesmaster,” they droned, and began rolling toward me.

  The Stench Bombs started after Natalie, who jerked the mike cord from its amplifier and flew away with it.

  Near the front of the room, Oliver waved his wings like a wannabe cheerleade
r. He was trying to catch the robots’ attention, but only a few heard him over the din. The rest lined up obediently at the refreshment table.

  I dipped and splattered, dipped and splattered as the line advanced—although it broke my heart to waste all that food.

  Waldo the furball joined me. Brown soup splashed everywhere. By the time we’d dosed all the droids, I was painted in it from head to foot, like a gumbo gecko.

  “Good job, Chet!” said Waldo.

  Misty-eyed, I licked my soggy sleeve. “Good soup, Waldo.”

  One by one, the droids ran down. Following my example, some teachers had taken the last of the gumbo—oh, the waste!—and cornered Oliver and the remaining robots.

  The rest was just mopping up. Literally. (I licked up as much as I could.)

  Before long, the teachers had hauled off Oliver’s gang—which included Sarah Tonin, Trixie, and the Stench Bombs.

  T-Bone, it turned out, was just a dupe. Trixie had conned him.

  “See, she told T-Bone the blackmail letter was a school report for Ms. Shrewer,” I said to Natalie after I got the scoop.

  “So he wasn’t framing me after all,” she said.

  “Nope. It was just your bad luck that Ms. Shrewer caught you picking up the letter.”

  Natalie pointed toward the door. “And it’s just T-Bone’s bad luck that he’s hot stuff with the ladies.”

  I looked. Anne Gwish was leading the ringtail away. Poor sucker.

  Natalie and I slumped into folding chairs, exhausted.

  “I’m too pooped to pop,” she said.

  “I’ll never feel the same way about vacuum cleaners again,” I said.

  As I stared at the floor, a pair of paws in brown pumps stepped into view.

  “Ahem,” said a battery-acid voice.

  “‘Ahem’?” I said, looking at my partner.

  “That’s what she said,” said Natalie. “‘Ahem.’”

  We looked up. The sour vice principal, Ms. Shrewer, stood before us. She looked even more bitter than usual, like she’d just eaten a lemon-and-liverwurst sandwich.

  “I, er . . .” She glanced at Principal Zero, who nodded. “I apologize for suspending you, Miss Attired,” said the shrew in the tightest, smallest voice imaginable.