“There’s nothing here! It’s all junk and photos.”
“What about ‘Ship Layout?’”
“I already know where everything is, Philly-Billy! I’ve been crawling around this ship forever. How do you think I got covered in so much icky dirt and cat hair?”
Philip smiled. “Steady on, old thing. I’m simply trying to help.”
“There’s a pair of cat fighters on the starboard side,” said Nick, rubbing her fat belly and staring at the screen below her feet. “If we can open the launch tubes and unlock the controls, you can fly me away from this stupid place. That would be a change, right? I’m the one with wings. Now it’s your turn to fly!”
“A cat fighter? That sounds far too small for me.”
“Nah, you’ll fit.” Nick stared at Philip’s long arms and legs. “Maybe?”
Philip sighed. “This is far too risky for my liking, but I’m afraid I haven’t any other suggestions. Let’s do it.”
Nick stared down at the screen again. “Have to find it first.” She jumped across the glowing blue display and landed on a folder with one foot, and then rapidly tapped her bare feet on a succession of commands in a drop-down menu. “Settings, View, Show Hidden Files,” she murmured.
A black folder appeared in the top corner, causing the entire grid of folders to shift. A text label––‘Ship Operations’––appeared below the new item.
“Awesome!” squealed Nick.
The fat-bellied sprite leapt across the glowing screen like a ballerina and landed with the ball of her right foot on the black folder. Nick tapped her feet through several options as a detailed outline of the multi-floored spacecraft appeared.
“Done. Alpha Scout is unlocked and the launch tube is open. We’ve got exactly sixty seconds to get to the bottom deck of the ship and launch.”
Philip jumped to his feet. “But we’re still inside her quarters! What about the guards?”
Nick put both hands on her waist and shook her head. “That’s your problem, Philly-Billy––always complaining. Lift me up to that ventilation thingy in the other room and get your shoes on.”
“I don’t have any shoes.”
Nick sighed. “Fifty-eight seconds.”
“Sorry!”
Philip grabbed Nick and ran into the bedroom. By standing on the top of the couch, he was able to stretch his arms all the way up to the opening and shove Nick inside. The sprite disappeared and Philip heard a staccato of tiny footsteps on aluminum.
“Go to the door!” squealed Nick.
Philip ran to the entrance to One’s quarters and waited, his hand on the wheel. He dared not even test the unlocking mechanism for fear of alerting the two guards outside. A sudden scream from outside the hatch. The steel vibrated from a series of violent thumps, and then Philip heard a faint tapping sound.
He spun the wheel and pulled on the heavy hatch, making it swing inside. Out in the corridor, Nick stood beside a pair of cats sprawled on the metal deck, both unconscious.
“How did you do that?”
The tiny blond woman shrugged. “I forgot I couldn’t fly, and landed on the head of that one. Both of them were so scared, they ran straight into the wall and knocked themselves out. Let’s go! Thirty seconds!”
Philip scooped up Nick and sprinted through the narrow corridors of the Hare Twist, the sprite screaming directions and waving her tiny arms. The teenager made a right turn, a left, then slid down a ladder to a lower deck, startling several cats and dogs in orange jumpsuits.
“There! Alpha!”
He jerked open a round hatch and stuck his head into a cramped, ball-shaped cockpit meant for either a large cat or a tiny dog.
“Forget this plan, Nick! It’s too small for me.”
The sprite windmilled her arms. “Feet first, feet first! Fifteen seconds!”
Philip sat on the deck outside the hatch. He stuck his long legs inside, pressed his feet against the clear glass above the control panel of the tiny fighter, and slid his bottom into the cramped space. As his head cleared the circular hatch, Nick jumped free of his grasp and pulled a red-painted lever inside the cockpit. A metal door whooshed behind Philip’s head, taking a few hairs with it.
“My word,” he grunted. “Bit of a warning next time, if you please.”
The tall, dark-haired teenager found it difficult to breathe, folded in half with his head between his knees and his feet on the windscreen. If he looked up, he could see a circle of black, starry sky beyond the opening of the launch tube.
“How am I supposed … to fly this thing … can’t even see,” he wheezed.
Nick climbed onto the control panel. “Worry about that later. We’ve got five seconds! How do these things even fly? I only see two holes in the control panel!”
“That’s it,” wheezed Philip.
He jammed both index fingers into the narrow pits and felt soft buttons on the inside surface of each cylinder.
“It’s not working!” fumed Nick.
“Sorry,” gasped Philip. “Not … a cat.”
His raised leg accidentally brushed against a clear protective box on the right side of the cockpit and exposed a bright red button. Philip’s knee depressed the button with a loud click, and a heavy, invisible force slammed against the back of his legs and threw Nick off the control panel, the engines vibrating with a deafening, high-pitched scream. The cat fighter rocketed out of the launch tube and into the night sky, spinning like an out-of-control obsidian gumball from the side of a giant flying pickle.
Chapter Nine
A narrow set of stairs spiraled up through the imposing white fortress of the Benevolent Society of Methodist Women, the smell of lavender and cedar oil growing stronger and stronger with each creaky wooden step, at last ending in a short hallway beneath the roof. Inside a small room at the corner, a waist-high featherbed stood in the midst of wooden chests and carefully packed boxes of clothing. The wall along the longest part of the room slanted sharply from ceiling to floor, and a multi-paned dormer window looked down upon the dirt streets of Pacific Grove and the smoky surface of the Monterey Bay.
Amy stood at the window like a statue, fists clenched at her sides and her breath fogging the glass as the fading light of dusk covered the village in shades of gray. The faint clank of pots and murmur of female voices echoed up the stairwell as Mrs. Morgan and the cook prepared dinner on the ground floor. Outside the window, a woman in a black dress hurriedly crossed the street holding a dark green umbrella with black fringe against the weak raindrops. A drizzle misted the windowpane in front of Amy’s face, the droplets slowly swelling and fattening. Unable to fight gravity any longer, the water streaked down the outside of the glass and matched the tears on Amy’s cheeks.
Floorboards creaked behind her, and Amy wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse.
“Are you crying?” asked Three.
Amy sniffed. “I’m not crying, because that would be stupid,” she said, her voice distant and hoarse. “It’s just allergies.”
“That would explain why your eyes are red, but not why you’ve been standing in the same place when I left. That must have been an hour ago. Are you mad that I took a bath first?”
Amy shook her head. “You’re seriously asking me that after everything that’s happened today?”
“Sorry.”
Three sat on the tall featherbed and tugged her makeup case from under the sheets. She cracked open the slim black rectangle and patted the quilt next to her.
“Come over here. I’ll do your face.”
Amy trudged across the creaky floor and plopped onto the bed.
“What kind of girl should I be?” asked Three, as she stared into a tiny hand mirror. “Church girl? Party girl? Fake drunk girl? Psycho knife murderer from Japan?”
“None of those. Women don’t wear makeup in 1912, especially good Methodist girls staying at a Methodist charity for girls in need.”
Three swiped pale foundation on her forehead and cheeks with a wide b
rush. “That’s the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard. I guess that’s why I haven’t seen anyone wearing any slap, not even lipstick. Makeup doesn’t have to attract attention, you know. How about ‘invisible girl?’”
Amy sat with her hands in her lap and watched the rain drip down the panes of the window.
“I’ve got a plan,” she said quietly. “But you’re not going to like it.”
“Spill the beans, sister,” said Three. “You want us to pretend to be boys and stowaway on a ship to the Far East? Sailors always have the best fun. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum smashed on my head.”
“No.”
Three paused and waved the foundation brush above her head. “I know! We pretend to be boys and join the army! Soldiers have a great time. We’ll gamble and ride horses and shoot outlaws.”
Amy sighed. “No.”
“We pretend to be boys and become bounty hunters who––”
“What is this about pretending to be boys?” said Amy. “I’ve spent enough time around my brother and his friends. They’re the most annoying, smelly, and stupid creatures in the galaxy, and never leave you alone, whether it’s making fun of you or asking you out on a date. Not one of them has two brain cells to rub together, so why would I pretend to be one?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was a thing girls did in the old days when they wanted to get away with stuff. This is the wild west, you know. Girls aren’t supposed to do anything but find a man and pop out a herd of babies.”
“So what? We’re not staying here.”
“Where are we going, then? The magical land of fairies?”
“Look at the options. This crazy copy of both of us––the evil Amy Armstrong––is still out there. What if she didn’t leave and is still looking for us?”
Three nodded. “She doesn’t give up, that one. She’s like a rabid poona in mating season. The red mist fills her eyes and she absolutely won’t let go.”
“That’s why we surrender.”
Three slapped the bed. “No way! Are you insane? There’s no way I’m going back. Maybe yesterday I might have thought about it, but not now. Not after … never mind.”
“Not after what?”
Three sighed. “Forget it.”
“Okay, then just listen to my plan. What if we ‘pretend’ to give up? It’s like a Death Star situation, and one of us is Chewbacca.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
“What if I contacted this evil woman and said that I’d captured you? She brings both of us onto her ship––the only transmat-capable spaceship in this dimension, now that the White Star is at the bottom of the sea––and has no idea that we’re working together. I break you out of your cell and we take over.”
Three nodded slowly. “You’re saying we find the weapons lockers, and fight our way to the environmental controls. We could vent all the oxygen into space, but that means killing everyone on board.”
“My friends are dead. I don’t care about murdering a bunch of pirates.”
“That’s as crazy as something One would say!”
Amy shrugged. “So?”
“Okay. I guess if we had control of the ship, we could transmat until we found a civilized dimension. But why do I have to be the prisoner?”
Amy shrugged. “There’s always a Han, and there’s always a Chewbacca. Besides, it’s my plan.”
She walked downstairs to talk to Mrs. Morgan, leaving Three alone in the room. The young woman left the bed and stood at the rain-misted window, unconsciously biting the fingernails of her right hand.
“This is the worst idea ever,” she whispered to herself. “Screw One and her stupid plan to trick Amy into visiting the ship. I have to keep her away from One, no matter what.”
Dinner was roast chicken, carrot-and-celery stew, baked potatoes, and fluffy white rolls covered in heaps of melting butter. Four other women who were staying at the house joined Amy, Three, and Mrs. Morgan at the dining table. Luckily, none were from New York, and she was able to deflect all the questions about her and Three by talking about her recent visit to London, which wasn’t a lie at all.
After the dishes were cleared away, she helped to move the dining table into the kitchen and arrange chairs around the room. A trickle of more than thirty women and men arrived at the door for the prayer meeting, the men gathering in the dining room and the women in the parlor. Two of the first guests to arrive were Mr. Woodley and his tall German butler. The older gentleman couldn’t hide his romantic feelings for Mrs. Morgan––in addition to leaving a name card with the corner folded over, his eyes never left her as she greeted each new arrival.
Amy had been to Sunday school once or twice, and knew what was expected. The meeting turned into an hour-long recitation of verses and prayers while holding hands with the person on either side, one being Three and the other an elderly matron with blue-veined hands and skin as thin as tracing paper. Amy had to kick Three a few times when the teenager either became restless or fell asleep.
After the meeting ended, she dragged Three outside for a breath of fresh air but mainly to keep her from saying something strange to the group of ladies, all of whom were very interested in a pair of shipwrecked girls. A light rain fell from the night sky, and turned the streetlight on the corner into a ball of glowing white mist.
“Wow,” said Three. “This is the cracker-jack life. Standing outside at night, getting drippy. Doesn’t get any better than this.”
“Sarcasm isn’t the most attractive thing in the world, especially for a young lady,” murmured Amy. “Someone told me that once.”
Three shrugged. “I’ll tell you one thing, that tall guy with Wheebley or whatever his name is had his eye on me. Both of us, actually. Looking us over, big time.”
“Woodley’s butler? So what?”
“Just thinking he could join the gang we’re making … and be my butler, if you know what I’m saying.”
“You need a handler, not a butler. And we don’t need a gang. Did you already forget my plan?”
“Yeah, I know. I’m just having second thoughts about the whole double-cross with One you want me to do, and going back to her crew.”
The front door squealed behind them and footsteps thumped on the porch as Mr. Woodley and his butler exited the house. Upon spotting the young women, the gentlemen raised their hats.
“Good evening, ladies,” said Mr. Woodley. “I wouldn’t spend too much time outside.”
Three pouted flirtatiously. “Because of the rain? Don’t worry––we’re not going to melt!”
Mr. Woodley bowed. “Not at all, Miss Theresa. I don’t wish to alarm you, but a mountain lion has been seen near Pebble Beach. The army is out looking for it, even in this weather.” He tipped his hat again. “Good evening!”
Three watched them walk up the street, and waved at Weiss as the tall German glanced back at her. “See what I mean? That butler totally wants to be our slave. Well, mainly MY slave, but you could have him on Thursdays.”
“I hate Thursdays,” said Amy quietly.
“Exactly. Wait, what?”
Amy sighed. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sky so the tiny drops of rain could roll down her skin.
THE ARMORED CAT thumped through the gloomy dunes of Asilomar beach, its heavy, slow steps shaking the limbs of scrubby coastal redwoods and causing tiny avalanches of damp sand. A light rain whirled down from the clouds and misted the cockpit inside the mouth of the steel tiger. Through a narrow slice of glass, the head of a cat wearing a red pilot’s helmet bounced left and right.
“Come on, Sunnie,” whined Betsy from the back seat. “Go faster.”
Sunflower tightened the strap of his helmet and stuck his paws back into the holes in the control panel.
“Do you want these backward monkeys to know we’re here? Any more noise and the entire village are going to run screaming out of their caves, ready to cook us alive or something.”
“Even in this rain?”
“Yes. Can you check the radar? I think we lost the soldiers.”
Betsy giggled. “They looked so goofy! I want to see that again. They should be riding goats or pigs or a smarter animal, right? Horses are so silly. Anyway, it’s not like they can get us while we’re inside the tank.” He paused. “Can they get us?”
“Of course not. But they might keep me from luring that evil Amy out of her ship. Whatever happens, we can’t attract attention from the humans. As the cat warrior Colin Powell once said: ‘Softly, softly, catchee monkey.’”
“That’s not a cat saying, it’s a dog saying,” murmured Betsy. The brown-and-white terrier stared at a handful of tiny glowing balls on the holographic radar that floated above his control panel. “Those horse people are really close behind us. Are you sure we can’t make friends?”
Sunflower quickly moved his paws in the control pits and halted the lumbering tank on legs. Hydraulic legs hissed and bent as Sunflower maneuvered the bulky armored vehicle down behind a nearby dune.
“Human monkeys can’t see that well at night,” he whispered. “So we’ve got that going for us. Better pray they don’t find our tracks in the dog-blasted wet sand of this dog-blasted beach.”
“Why are you whispering?” asked Betsy. “They can’t hear us.”
“Because I have a splitting migraine. There’s a constant yammering and yapping coming from behind me.”
“You should see a doctor. My cousin’s a doctor and could fix you up, once he gets out of dog prison. He might be out already. What year is it?”
Sunflower sighed. “Please stop talking. Also, I know what your tiny brain is thinking, and don’t whistle. I hate whistling even more than talking.”
“Okay, Sunnie.”
“No humming, either!”
“Wow, Grouchy Greg. Are you going to be this grouchy all night, Grouchy Greg?”
“Yes, until the human soldiers are gone, and until you stop calling me Grouchy Greg.”
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