Strange Tails

Outside the air was breathable. Potbelly had not yet asphyxiated, frozen, boiled, or combusted, and she could only take that as a good sign. Panting from all the running she gulped in lungfuls of air. She did so just like she did on Earth. Expelled it again, just like she did on Earth. That, however, was where the similarity ended.

She saw diamonds.

Fields upon fields of diamonds, all scattered about on the ground. Could it be glass, she thought? Or some other faceted mineral? But they shone, and they glinted, and they twinkled, until all that remained in her dizzying skull was diamonds. Fields upon fields of them.

Oh, and sapphires.

Uncut stones the color of the sky above, itself a blue sky so sky blue, so sapphire translucent, that she could balance the entire heavens upon her nose. An eternity of sky. An azure firmament so delicious it smacked of candy floss and mint and lip balm and icicles.

Not forgetting the emeralds, of course.

Emeralds mirroring lushly flowing trees, so tree-y they had to be painted; and if so, painted with shamrocks, and kiwi fruit, and olives, and tiny little exotic frogs.

Then there was the bright pink coral, pinker than sunburnt skin, pinker than bubble gum, pinker than prom, pinker than—

“I need a whizz,” grumbled Squirrel.

Potbelly blinked away her reverie, her heart rate slowing to a norm.

They had run in some random direction, to the far horizon, and made good distance. Maybe a mile behind now was the docking station: low, single-story, slightly cradle-shaped to match the ship, peach-colored to match nothing much in particular, and decorated with a rather fetching border detail of multi-colored flowers and a prancing pony.

The spaceship floated just above the cradle in a way a balloon doesn’t: static, hard, and menacing. Inside, still, were their companions, if Potbelly could think of them as such—and she did. They were planet Earth, and what lay about her now was most definitely not.

Farther in the distance, farther even than her little mammalian legs could ever hope to carry her, she saw Coralane and Zoltan disappear. They were little more than pixels in a scrambled world of glimmering light, and she half-expected them to bounce off a projector screen. Against the backdrop of candy floss clouds, rolling snow-capped mountains, and what could only be described as a rainbow falling uphill, the two birds blinked into nothing.

Even the variously sequenced amino acids and nucleotide soup sloshing around Potbelly’s altered and computer-enhanced brain was having trouble keeping up.

She heard a light drizzle against a tree.

“This place … ” she said, unable to finish.

“It’s like Matisse barfed up a Crayola set,” replied Squirrel, reappearing.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s weird. And these stupid diamonds everywhere? Painful to run on if you ask me.” He picked a lump from his rear paw and lobbed it at Potbelly’s head.

“Ouch.”

“Just testing. Seeing which is hardest.”

“There is something not quite right about all this.”

“You have a habit of saying that. And for once, you’re right. Take a look at the sky.”

Potbelly returned her gaze to the perfect azure firmament. She saw nothing at all except maybe whipped cream clouds and … wait. Something else. “There’s something behind the sky,” she said.

“I reckon it’s the dome we came through. This whole place is some kind of giant Easter Egg. We’re standing on the free toy inside. It’s planet Kinder Surprise.”

Potbelly scraped aside diamonds and assorted lumps of raw and probably priceless gemstones, and peered at what lay beneath. She dug down a few inches until what looked like gravel clogged up the pads of her paws. “Seems real enough,” she said. “I’m no geologist, but it looks perfectly good material to bury a poo in.”

“Then how do you explain this?” replied Squirrel, kicking over Potbelly’s little pile of gemstones. “How can this be natural? D’you think a jewel thief got careless? Like, a million times?”

“It’s an alien planet. Who knows what it gets up to. After giant talking spiders and spaceships I’m OK with this degree of weird.”

A loud belch burped up from the ground. They jumped back and eyed its source. Burp, it belched again. A fine shower of crystalline substance ejected from a small hole and scattered itself over the immediate area. Potbelly picked her way to the hole, curious. When she got there it smelled warm and peaty; a pleasant peaty, like the stalks of a rose.

“They’re coming out the ground,” she diagnosed. “Feel them, they’re warm. I’m guessing they’re made under pressure and then popped out through these vents.”

Another bilious ejection launched a shower of glittering stones, the largest missing Squirrel’s backside by an inch. Potbelly wore the subsequent mushroom cloud like a tiara.

“Takes some of the headache out of getting engaged, I suppose,” said Squirrel, leaping onto Potbelly to avoid gemstone insertion of the involuntary kind.

“Is that a proposal?” she asked.

“Sure, but let’s skip to the honeymoon. Where are we headed?”

“Chagrin falls, I’d imagine.”

“Follow the ribbon path until chagrin falls? So you think that’s a place rather than a good time? Shame. Trouble is, I don’t see any paths around here.”

The gleaming crust of the ground shone less invitingly to Potbelly now she surveyed it a second time—it seemed to offer up only rough edges and more ouch. “I can see a rainbow,” she said, gesturing with her nose to a river of primary and secondary colors pouring itself upwards from a perfectly sculpted mountain.

“I can sing a rainbow too, but that won’t help us either. Unless … you’re saying that’s the ribbon path?”

“Seems plausible.”

“If that’s the case, we’re in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Well which one?”

Potbelly scuttled about to see where Squirrel was pointing. Another flawlessly-colored rainbow shimmered into existence, stretching from a river that twinkled like yellow gold, up into a group of powderpuff cumulonimbus clouds. She had no other suggestion. She parked her behind on a clear spot, still watching the clouds.

“They all look like puppies and kittens,” she said, defeated.

“Except that one,” said Squirrel. “Looks like Churchill.”

As Churchill drifted above, treble-chin and all, his neighbors surrounded and consumed him, birthing out a new puffy creation coalescing exactly to the form of a baby bird. “This place is trying too hard to be perfect,” he said.

“You think?”

“Often. I said the same thing about chocolate cheesecake. And I was right. After fifty of them, you puke. This place is giving me the same feeling.”

“You want to scoot up a tree and do your Squirrel thing?”

“You mean my special dance?”

“No, look for stuff. I’ve seen your special dance. I thought you had palsy.” Potbelly gestured to a stand of impossibly symmetric oaks fifty yards off. They resembled a confectionery counter display of bright green lollipops.

“Lead the way, oh noble steed.”

“With your weight on my back? The diamonds hurt my paws.”

“A girl’s best friend and a man’s best friend not getting along, eh?”

“Any girl that thinks diamonds are her best friend hasn’t had to walk on a field of the buggers. Besides, this girl doesn’t have a best friend, just a constantly yammering burr.”

Squirrel dismounted. “Don’t blame me if you get a chill without your little Squirrel blanket,” he said, tiptoeing gingerly away.

“Speaking of,” replied Potbelly, joining him. “Have you noticed how warm it is, like, just the right temperature, even when you can’t see the sun?”

“Fantastic,” he replied, ouching at the ground. “And here’s me without my beach towel.”

Together, in full view of whomever may have been watching, they picked their way through the rough-edged terrain, favoring the cover of larger piles of belched-up gemstones, and all the while keeping a weather eye on the looming aquiline shape of the spaceship and its docking station below.

Their target turned out to be the head of a large flow of lollipop-looking trees, stretching from the docking station itself, and spreading out in various tributaries alongside the main rump of snow-capped mountains. A smarter pair of mammals would have headed straight for that vein, but in their blind panic and their instinctive pursuit of the two fleeing birds they had no more sense of direction than two beads of rain running down a window pane.

At last they arrived. Potbelly licked her paws, spitting out small shards, hoping they weren’t poisonous like she’d heard ground glass could be. Squirrel, whose daintier nether regions had done a better job of navigating the sharp topography, considered his next challenge.

“Absolutely straight as an arrow,” he said, letting out a whistle at the lollipop tree. “Give it to the aliens, they know how to grow things. Interesting how the branches all look identical and … hang on a minute.”

He negotiated the tree trunk with familiar ease and scurried along the lowest branch to its leafy conclusion, disappearing into a dangling thicket. By now Potbelly was satisfied with her de-diamonding and craned her neck to see what had grabbed his attention.

She heard munching.

“Candy!” yelled Squirrel.

“Keep your voice down!” she hissed back.

“Mint choc chip!” he yelled again. His head reappeared through the leaves. “Potbelly, there is actual candy growing on actual trees. Can you believe it? This isn’t an alien planet! We’ve died and gone to heaven!”

“Impossible!”

“Here, try it.” He threw down a half-munched blob. She sniffed it, then gave it a dubious lick. Then another, and another.

“It’s like that stuff they have in the gift aisle at Whole Foods,” she said.

“Definitely no Aldi rubbish,” Squirrel munched.

Each fruit was pear-shaped and smooth-skinned, but unlike their Earth companions, deep bronze and heavy. Squirrel picked out three more and dropped them down to Potbelly. She gave one a hearty bite and out poured a gooey center. At first it alarmed her, then she recognized the taste of cherry liqueur.

“How can they grow candy on trees?”

“How come we didn’t?” replied Squirrel, almost indignant. “Earth evolution sucked.”

“But you can’t just cultivate confectionery. How do the ingredients mix together?”

With the remains of her tattered claw she scratched at the tree’s thick trunk. An outer layer peeled off with difficulty, but after some effort she produced a rivulet of sap and licked it. The sap tasted of caramel. Another sprung out.

“This one tastes like marshmallow,” she announced. “The bark seems woody, like home, but inside is some sort of ingredients fountain.”

“Imagine the furniture we could make out of this stuff,” declared Squirrel, still munching. “Talk about eat yourself out of house and home.”

“It doesn’t bother you that all this is impossible?”

“No, you’re impossible. Come on, this place’d give Willie Wonka a coronary. Look! That one has Goobers!”

Squirrel bounded to the end of a branch and leapt across the void, confident in landing as perfectly as he always did, only to decelerate rapidly and hang suspended in mid-air. He struggled against the sticky gauze impeding his path, a fine silvery mesh he could barely see. The more he struggled the less he moved, until each of his four limbs were glued tight.

“Potbelly, I’m stuck!” he yelled.

“Your fault for eating too much. You’ll have to stay there until you lose some weight.”

“Not in the branches, in the something!” As he yelled his head and jaw grew increasingly ensnared. Potbelly wandered around, until she saw a small object twisting in the gap between the two trees. Focusing, she could just about see the mesh surrounding Squirrel, stretching from the surrounding branches and covering an area the size of a bedsheet. It became thicker as he twisted inside.

“Can you tear it or bite it?” she called, trying not to snort with laughter at his predicament.

“I car … n’t … hudly … move … tall.” Squirrel continued wriggling ineffectually, only succeeding in sticking the mesh to his remaining free body parts.

“Will you stop clowning around,” Potbelly insisted, hushing her voice and glancing back to the space port. “You’re making too much fuss.”

“Fssz! Fssz!” hissed Squirrel, angry but lacking the leverage to protest.

Potbelly took a short run at the tree trunk and scrabbled for purchase. She fell back and rolled inelegantly away. The tree trunk peered back at her, without interest.

“Well, you’re on your own with this one,” she called, righting herself.

Squirrel, now fully cocooned, heard not a word. It felt like the laser portal again. And then under the human again. Why did this keep happening? Interplanetary travel really was nothing more than being squashed down and rolled up like a cigar. Finally he lost strength, hoping dearly that the tree was not ready to light up a Squirrel-sized smoke.

Then, with a jolt, one of the branches depressed. Squirrel, one eye still open, made out a clump of sugar-coated leaves flatten and then part completely. Something mottled and very hairy came into partial view. He knew the monstrosity immediately, and when he swiveled up his monocular vision, sure enough, there hovered two large salivating fangs and a cluster of bottle-bottom eyes. Quietly, to himself, he meeped.

Potbelly saw it too. She woofed, to her shame from both ends, finding herself caught between fight and flight. Her legs danced spasmodically while they awaited further instructions.

Using a short silver thread, the spider rolled Squirrel up to its pincered fangs.

“Let him go!” yelled Potbelly. “I’ll kill you! We surrender! I’ll bite yer legs off! Mercy!”

Surprised, the creature located the other voice, and careful not to release its captured prey adjusted the position of those powerful front legs, clutched at a thick branch, and then loomed down. Rear legs rubbed to produce more silvery thread. The spider dropped from the branch.

Potbelly scrabbled away from the descending shadow, any pain in her paws outweighed by the awful thing coming down towards her. Suddenly she was Miss Muffet, thinking a tuffet might be a useful heavy object at a time like this.

“What do you want with us?” she pleaded, but the spider, wordlessly, swung down towards her, and with one long limb flipped her up, a scythe harvesting corn, and before she could snap at the dexterous limb she was on the spider’s back, adhered to the same sticky cocoon as Squirrel. With a few more twists she was tied up like a calf at a rodeo. One small Squirrel eye stared back at her in panic.

“Let us go!” she demanded. “Don’t you know who we are? We’re American citizens!”

Still the spider kept silent. Was this creature some primal, tree-dwelling relation of the one at the space port? A breed not only mute, but partial to a spot of doggie burger?

The huge mottled creature ascended its sticky rope and began picking its way deftly through the trees. Each free limb sought a new point of purchase until soon it was propelling itself forward at great speed.

“Why would you eat us with all this free chocolate?” she pleaded, fearing each new entreaty was bringing diminishing returns.

“Shh!” replied the spider, at last. It had the same high-pitched lisping accent of the beast they encountered at the docking station.

“Sorry, it’s my habit to talk nervously while being eaten alive. Mother did warn me. Where are you taking us? Why won’t you let us go?”

“I’m not going to eat you.”

Relief swept from the small dog’s brain to her legs, which went to jelly, and she woofed again, and again from the wrong end. Must have been the cheese. “Kidnapping is still not nice,” she admonished. “At least it isn’t on Earth. In fact, it’s very much frowned upon. You could be in big trouble, buster.”

“Quiet. It is likely they have seen you. We must make distance. Quicker this way.”

“But—“

“Shh!”

For several minutes their broad hairy vehicle transported them swiftly through the river of trees until a substantial gap between two stands of lollipop oaks brought them to a halt. Letting out more thread, the spider swung across the divide, between two thick branches, one near one far, and alighted to continue its relentless path. Each tree shook under their heavy progress until Potbelly saw the broad but distinct stands merge together into one large and impressive forest.

After ten minutes more, at least by Potbelly’s reckoning, they arrived at a clearing near the base of a mountain. The spider spun out its sticky rope elevator and they descended to the ground floor. A broad red path ran before them, meandering in a zig-zag pattern across a wide field up into the mountains. Everywhere around the path lay lush green grass, mowed to a perfectly consistent height.

The spider followed the red path assiduously, avoiding the grass, weaving its inefficient and meandering course until, Potbelly noted, to have walked across the manicured lawn would have taken half the time. The ribbon path felt smooth, though, and pleasantly springy, especially after all that rough jerking around in the trees. The weight of the spider deflected back gently as it walked. The winding path had a satin look, like a ribbon on a gift box; assuming the gift was a suspension spring, given the perverse course it took.

After finishing this apparently aimless wander they were in the mountain proper, finally arriving at the mouth of a cave. Inside yawned darkness, and rows of stalactite teeth grazed Potbelly’s head when they entered.

Down into the cave’s throat, Potbelly’s eyes focused on a gentle glow emanating from its smooth cave walls—the hollow had only seemed dark from the brilliant warmth of the outside world. Shimmering luminescently in muted hues of gold, silver, and copper, the walls changed color, like a kaleidoscope turned by a curious child, becoming in a moment orange, apple, and banana.

The thrumming sound of water then came to her, just as the sight of its source appeared too. It was a cool-looking waterfall, and the spider chose that spot to settle. Each droplet reflected the radiant light of the cave, forming a shimmering curtain of beads veiling a further wall close behind. From the waterfall a stream ran out of sight, and the spatter-backs took on the color of pearl, jumping and tumbling like amphibious creatures at play. The sound made Potbelly thirsty.

Their kidnapper placed its two charges on the floor. Potbelly, frightened, but with a newly acquired thirst, lapped out a deceptively long tongue towards a puddle. It tasted of grape. She lapped again, but quickly withdrew when a salivating fang scythed down, just missing her. The fang slit open her sticky mesh straitjacket, and she rolled free, laughing involuntarily.

“That was awesome!” she cried, checking herself, but then giggling again. She sprung up and nudged Squirrel, who was similarly released, nuzzling him into an upright position. “Ouch,” he said. He was far too cramped and bruised to do any springing of his own.

“Come on old man, play stick!” For some reason unknown to herself, Potbelly followed her request with a little paw-tapping dance.

The spider backed away from them, saying nothing, but looking on curiously. Its hairy bulk remained outlined by the balmy light of the cave, whose color by now had turned to rose, fuchsia, and peony.

Potbelly nudged Squirrel again, her playfulness abundant.

“Will you quit it?” he admonished. “You’ve won. Go claim your world’s maddest dog prize.” He followed with a groan, rubbing his clicking legs and bending them into shape.

“You mustn’t blame Potbelly,” came a voice from the shadows. “Being a little mad here is basically a requirement.”

Squirrel recognized the voice but at first couldn’t quite place it. He looked around for its source. Something small, dome-shaped, and unpleasantly brown clumped out from the gloom. To Squirrel’s surprise that something looked very much like a tortoise.

“Michel!” cried Potbelly, leaping towards the carapaced object in a single bound, paws slipping on the smooth surface. She skittled the tortoise across the floor and into the stream. It was worryingly upside down.

“Get me out! Get me out!” cried the tortoise, whose shell momentarily trapped sufficient air to remain afloat. A long spider leg scooped up the tortoise, its waggling stumpy limbs flailing in the air, and deposited it back on the cave floor.

“Polluting the stream of the Goddess is not permitted,” said the spider, gravely.

“I apologize for almost drowning,” replied the tortoise.

“Nevertheless, the small creatures mustn’t—“

“Yes, yes, she won’t do it again.” The tortoise looked nervously at Potbelly, wondering if she was about to do it again.

“Michel! S’you! Bestest pal ever!” Potbelly slurred her words, teetering towards him. Again the spider scooped up the tortoise, this time out of the reach of an increasingly uncoordinated dog.

“Michel?” said Squirrel, hopping closer. “Is that really you?”

“Said I’d beat you here, didn’t I?” His hooked beak positively beamed.

“But how?”

“Michel! Michel! Play stick! Play stick!” Potbelly was bouncing on the spot. In response, the tortoise peered up to the looming arachnid. A googly cluster of eyes peered back, like round bubbles trapped in a beer bottle. “Would you?” he asked.

The spider fished about the floor, located a small length of tree part, and threw it out the cave. Potbelly set off towards the beckoning daylight, claws scrabbling for purchase again, and the spider, lowering Michel to the floor, joined her in pursuit.

Squirrel watched. “What the hell’s gotten into her? Have the tics finally poisoned her brain?”

“It’s Chagrin Falls,” replied the tortoise. “She drank from it, I’d wager. Thank the Goddess I didn’t submerge—I’d be on a bender for a fortnight.” Michel shook his beaked head. “The water contains some kind of neurotoxin. It confuses the brain transmitters, bringing on a temporary feeling of euphoria.”

“You mean, she’s drunk?”

“As a skunk, yes.”

He rolled his lower lip contemplatively, watching Potbelly gambol outside. The affectation convinced Squirrel this really was Michel. He felt a wave of appreciation on meeting a familiar Earthling, though not such a big wave he was prepared to show it. This was Michel, after all.

“To be fair,” continued the tortoise, breaking a silence punctured only by the soft pattering rain of Chagrin Falls. “The skunks I have met, and this is no doubt true for most of the genus Mephitidae, were generally a sober and highly respectable folk.”

Yep, this was Michel alright.

Yet … somehow a more formal Michel. Squirrel thought of their time back at the Silence, occasionally watching his endless movie collection, especially the ones hidden under his bed. But now he seemed less … well … less Spaceballs Michel … more Bladerunner Michel.

“So-oose ready to party?” barked Potbelly, skittering back into the cave and braking alarmingly close to the stream. An already fatigued spider tugged her by the tail, spinning her around its head, much to Potbelly’s delight, who barked enough to let out a little wee and vomit.

“With no correspondent hangover,” added Michel, watching the playfulness carry itself back outside. “Amazing thing, Chagrin Falls. It’s venerated, a holy place. This spider is charged to guard it, as are two of its chums … though that’s not why they’re really here. As you’ll find out.”

The sound of a small dog heaving and then lapping up what it had just heaved turned both their stomachs.

“She’ll sleep it off soon, come with me.”

Between the aching Squirrel and the propulsionally-challenged tortoise they made the slowest of progress, doing so in a quiet and somber manner—as befits a holy shrine, Michel instructed, even one given to unexpected drunkenness—until they emerged into another chamber, lacking the iridescent wallpaper of the first but with a natural light gleaming from above. Squirrel noted the handy escape route, should it be required.

“So how the hell did you get here?” asked Squirrel, grateful to find a soft sheen of lichen to rest upon.

“Hitchhiked, of course.”

“Hitchhiked? Don’t you need a thumb for that?”

“No, just a human with a handbag.” Michel raised one eyelid, usually kept at half-mast, enjoying his cryptic tone. “It’s a perfectly civilized way to fly.”

Squirrel eyed him suspiciously.

“But humans can’t fly, even the ones with handbags. Are you saying fashion accessories are all that’s needed for space travel?”

“No.” Michel dumbed down his cryptic tone to one that was more wordsearch. “First, you are right, in that the handbag did not, under its own steam, attain sufficient velocity to escape Earth’s gravitational pull, but the owners of said handbags, namely humans, as you know, are of particular interest to spaceships. Enough to provide the needed escape velocity, as it were.”

“Added to this, I happen to possess the knowledge that every she-human of a certain age will never leave her home without first grabbing her trusty bag, a receptacle that contains her most valuable and treasured belongings.” Michel coughed a small cough. “Along with a few other items I won’t dwell upon.”

“Regardless,” he continued, “all I needed was to remove said possessions and replace them with something of even greater value: namely, me.”

“But how did you do that?”

Michel allowed a pause to float slowly between them, a habit that reminded Squirrel of why he annoyed him so much.

“Gavin, as you may or may not recall, lasered up by the spaceship as you were, experienced an abrupt epiphone over Coralane. Naturally, he realized, the two of us were on the same side. We had to do something about that evil old bird and if she was headed into space then that’s exactly what we needed to do too. Where’s Snodberry and the human by the way?”

“Captured on the ship, and they have Itchynuts.”

“A space disease?”

“Quite possibly.” Squirrels eyes narrowed. “Your story sounds highly convenient. How do I know you’re not some kind of double agent working for the Spiders from Mars? You seem oddly chummy with them.”

“This isn’t Mars, and for your information, it’s not me who’s chummy. I’m just a guest here, like yourself. The true master is Cedric.”

“Cedric?”

“You may know him as Cecil.”

“That would be a mite optimistic.”

“My former roommate at the Silence? I mentioned him several times while you were there.”

Squirrel shook his head.

“He ran off one night?”

Squirrel replaced his head shaking with a blank stare.

“Red-and-green striped eyes?”

Squirrel concentrated on removing any semblance of recognition from his face.

“A mink?”

He resorted to speech. “Sorry, no. But you’re saying some old roommate of yours is now a genius living on Mars, or wherever, and it’s him controlling the spiders? Are you sure you didn’t drink from that stream?”

“I told you, this isn’t Mars, and … well never mind, you’ll meet Cedric soon enough.”

Squirrel looked about, half expecting an entrance, but the other half, the half expecting nothing much to happen at all, got it right. A brief silence descended.

“To finish answering your question,” said Michel, the first to crack under its weight, “is that it was Gavin, and his athletic prowess, who lead us to the human with a handbag. When another spaceship came he followed it, with me clinging to his collar, until with Gavin’s keen nose we stumbled upon a dilapidated hillbilly shack near Marion.”

“Marion was the lady with the handbag?”

“No, Marion is a small town in Ohio. Her name was also Marion, though, which I now wish I hadn’t mentioned based on your facial expression, but, anyway, she was as mad as a balloon. Despite being, as I say, off with the fairies, somehow she had hitherto avoided the attention of the aliens. Fortunately for me she was not so crazy that she didn’t understand the importance of a trusty portmanteau.” Before Squirrel could interject, Michel added: “That means handbag.”

He took in a deep breath before continuing. “Gavin scented her from several miles away and then I plotted how to get us aboard the spaceship. Gavin, sadly, was incinerated.”

“The space aliens killed him?”

“No, he set himself alight burning down the old lady’s shack. Well, we had to get her out of there somehow.”

“You bastard.”

“Marriage amongst tortoises is indeed rare.”

“But how did you find this Cedric? Did he pick your handbag at the space port bring-and-buy sale?”

“The sale? No, they’re quite strict about locally sourced artisanal pieces. Every Thursday by the way. I … let’s just say I escaped. Anyway, it’s a long story.”

A sudden laugh pulsed down from the opening in the ceiling. “He opened his big beak and ruined everything,” said the laugh.

The laugh belonged to a voice, which, in turn, belonged to the most beautiful creature Squirrel had ever laid eyes upon. They felt so at home there, his eyes, that he wondered if they’d ever go back in his head. In return, two flashing red-and-green orbs gazed inquisitively back, boring directly into Squirrel’s skull—he would not have been surprised, on some later inspection, if he found two smoldering scorch marks there as proof.

The creature’s pelt, by contrast, was tawny-brown, but just as lustrous. As it oozed down to the floor the creature did so with an upright-pointed tail, like an electrical conductor, the ones you might find attached to a bumper car at the fair.

Not that Squirrel cared to notice, but beside him Michel remained equally transfixed. At last the tortoise mumbled an apology for his prior behavior, something he had clearly done before. He used the name Cedric.

“Not to worry,” Cedric continued, his expression bestowing reassurance. Those eyes were the identical of Coralane’s, yet, when not set against her lurid plumage, somehow they burned brighter. “You could not run and sneak your way out as I did.” Cedric turned to Squirrel. “Poor Michel, he quite frightened the spiders when he spoke, they never heard nor saw such a thing—luckily it was Tiffani who took a fancy to your handbag. Coming to know such a thing was possible, however, is likely why your ship is now within their custody.”

Squirrel nodded, happy to regain some cognitive function. “I think the spiders knew we were coming because their squid radioed back before we could capture it. It zapped us, for samples.”

“They are on quite the learning curve about Earth’s non-human sentients.” Cedric examined Squirrel once more. “And then you turn up, you with your bushy tail and your fine, gray fur.”

During hot summer days that same fine-gray fur proved burdensome to Squirrel, but he thanked the Lord for it now, with its ability to hide the much hotter temperature of his fiercely blushing skin.

“You may have noticed,” continued Cedric, “that there are almost no other animals on this planet, and none of any size. There are very few reference points for the indigenous population. The lack of bio-diversity is quite strange, rather a shame for our human creators who’d hoped we’d fit right in. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Squirrel was sure he’d agree to pretty much anything. He nodded to prove it. “How come the spiders can understand us when we speak though?” he managed in the end, his little cheeks still aflame.

“Oh, the same way humans do. Our embedded bio-machines transmit to them. Electrochemical signaling in their frontal lobe. Much of the wetware’s design is stolen from the Angrothal, as you no doubt know. Hence, we talk to them, they talk to us.”

Cedric smiled patiently, being more adept at it than Squirrel, and waited for Squirrel’s countenance to subside from bewilderment into the usual, customary admiration.

“I am right, am I not?” he continued. “The spaceship we see docked at Portside Delta contains the Nevermore army, and they were placed under arrest by the humans? We saw dozens of bipeds pour into the place only a few hours ago.”

“Yes,” said Squirrel, his skin still prickling. “Except they’re not under arrest. They’re asleep.”

“Asleep?”

“We warned them. We said no good ever comes of cryotubes.”

“Computer malfunction?”

“I think it was plugged in and switched on if that helps. We were flown here by a recently bereaved moth, though, so anything is possible.”

“What happened to the fish?”

“Sushi, with any luck.”

“Itchynuts?”

Squirrel wanted to reply in his usual fashion but checked himself. “The only people off the boat were me, Potbelly, Coralane, and Zoltan.”

Quickly Cedric sat up on his haunches. “What did you say?” he urged.

“Sorry, I know, bad grammar. The only people off the boat were Potbelly, Coralane, Zoltan, and I—“

“No, I mean about Coralane.” Cedric’s voice was animated. He stared at Squirrel, with such fascination in his eyes Squirrel wished he’d thought of this earlier.

“Yes … Coralane. That’s important, right?”

“It’s as I feared,” intoned Michel.

Squirrel didn’t hear him, still smothered as he was under the tectonic pressure of Cedric’s gaze.

“How did she stow aboard? Did you alert Nevermore’s Inner Circle?”

“We tried to, but they didn’t seem to listen. They didn’t really think it was all that important, I mean—“

“Not all that important! Heavens above! Now we know why the cryotubes didn’t open. Sabotage!”

“Oh right,” muttered Squirrel. Cedric’s scalding tone replaced, ironically, his blushing heat with a chill.

“And who is this Zoltan?”

“A crow from Nevermore.”

“Never heard of him.”

Squirrel nodded, a pained expression on his face. “I think that was the problem. Acting out. Needy for attention.”

“Earth lay in ruins and we have time for molly-coddling?” Cedric was becoming increasingly exasperated, and his attention, which had flocked to Squirrel earlier, seemed to gain a new bird—a mockingbird. Where was Potbelly? He could do with a little molly-coddling right now.

“Coralane has an avian ally, this Zoltan,” mused Michel. “That doubles her potential for mischief. We must act. I wonder what she has to gain by taking out the Nevermore army? Did she think she couldn’t control them? Were they in her way?”

Cedric looked to the middle distance, his eyes narrowed, thinking. The others instinctively followed suit.

Squirrel, having soon acquired neck cramp, was then happy for any distraction, even in the shape of three huge spiders crawling into the cave. Their hairy limbs covered the walls, painting the stone with spiny shades of black, red, and yellow. They loomed over the three much smaller creatures. This was another thing Squirrel knew he would never get used to. One of the spiders lowered a snoring Potbelly.

“Took all three of us!” it declared, placing the cargo before Squirrel. “Why the silly stick couldn’t stay where it silly well was I shall never know. Totally ruined my hair.”

“Me too,” said another, grooming itself in a pink pearlescent mirror retrieved from some distant part of itself. “I shall have to get my nails done.”

“That will have to wait,” replied Cedric.

“That’s easy for you to say. It’s the weekend tomorrow and getting a drop-in is murder.” The other two then muttered an agreement. “If we don’t go this evening it’ll be days before we’re seen and I will not go out in public looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, not while I have a civilized breath in my body.”

“Are you not still members of the resistance?” Cedric demanded, with some impatience.

“Why, of course babes. We shook pinkies, remember?”

“And are you not still committed to freeing humans from those crimes and subjugations perpetrated by your very own species?”

“Of course ducks.”

“Well, then, it is your moral duty—“

“Ut-ut. Nothing was said about weekend overtime. Or, for that matter, sacrificing cosmetology.”

“This is a fashion emergency,” chimed in another, waving a limb as proof.

“There is no such thing as a fashion emergency!” burst Cedric, clearly losing his cool.

One of the spiders looked him up and down. “Hmm, wisdom from the planet that invented lycra Speedos. Maybe we should book you in too. When was last time you had those split ends done?”

The other two tittered. Cedric’s eyes flashed angrily.

“Maybe a compromise?” suggested Squirrel, trying to help. “A quick trip to the salon now, then work the weekend, then take time off in lieu.”

“See, the rat gets it.”

“Squirrel.”

“With that tail? Oh sweetie you must come with us. No, they’d capture you. OK, raincheck toots.”

“So if I understand this correctly,” persisted Cedric, ice in his voice. “We will rescue the Nevermore army, martial our collective forces, liberate the humans, bring down the evil oppressor, but only after, and this is the most important part, you get a pedicure.”

“And a bikini wax.”

“You don’t even wear bikinis!”

Each spider tapped a leg and looked about the cave nonchalantly.

“OK! OK! Beauty salon it is, but I need you to fight Intergalactic Fascism immediately after!”

The three spiders eyed each other in muted deliberation.

“Deal,” said the first. “Oh, and stop for coffee.”

“Fine!”