War on Whimsy

  "Action!" ordered Greta, in a tone of voice that made you wonder if she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.

  Nicola lifted her microphone. She had decided to use her mom's maiden name for her fake identity.

  "I'm Diane Dennett, reporting live from the Planet of Volcomania."

  Mmmm. A bit too squeaky. Lower your voice and slow down.

  "With me today, is Bertha . . ." Frizzle! Forgot to ask her last name! "Ah, Bertha is taking part in a protest against the War on Whimsy. Tell me, Bertha, why are you so strongly opposed to this war?"

  Nicola tried not to look at Sean (he was making elaborately stupid faces at her) and held her microphone close to Bertha's mouth.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Greta furiously jabbing her finger at the list of questions in Nicola's hand.

  "Because it's an outrage!" said Bertha.

  There was an awkward pause.

  "Ummm, why is it an outrage?" asked Nicola, taking the microphone back.

  But she never got to hear Bertha's answer because at that moment they were both knocked off their feet by a torrent of water.

  CHAPTER 14

  Was it a flood? Had a river burst its banks?

  Nicola went flying across the street on her stomach, propelled by an incredibly powerful surge of water. It was like she'd suddenly gone face-first down a very fast waterslide.

  Gasping for breath, she sat up and looked down at her drenched clothes. Remarkably, she was still holding on to her microphone. Not one of the protesters was still standing. They were lying all over the road like flies knocked out by insecticide. Most of them had lost their placards. Some were crying.

  "What happened?" she said to a young Volcomanian man lying close to her.

  He sat up, dried his face on his sleeve, and pointed at the far side of the road. "Police," he said.

  Nicola looked where he was pointing and saw a large group of Volcomanian women dressed in green uniforms. Each of them was holding the nozzle of an enormous black hose. The hoses looked like creepy serpent creatures.

  "They turned those hoses on us?" said Nicola.

  "Sure did," said the Volcomanian man grimly. "And now they'll arrest us."

  "This is an outrage!" cried someone. Nicola looked up to see her interview subject, Bertha, climbing unsteadily to her feet and pushing her bedraggled hair out of her eyes.

  "This was a legal protest against an illegal war!" she shouted.

  "Oh dear," muttered the Volcomanian man.

  "All protests against the war are now deemed illegal by order of Mrs. Mania!" boomed one of the policewomen. "Sit back down now, citizen!"

  Bertha remained standing. "It was a peaceful protest!" she protested. "We weren't hurting anyone! We just wanted our voices to be heard!"

  "Citizen! You must sit down now!"

  "I will stand proud for my convictions," cried Bertha.

  "Here we go," muttered the Volcomanian man.

  WHOOOSH!

  All the policewomen simultaneously turned their hoses on Bertha, hitting her directly in the stomach with a gigantic stream of water. She went flying like a rag doll and landed about a hundred feet away with a horrible wet thump.

  Nicola closed her eyes. What a cruel planet!

  "Citizens! Do not move!" boomed one of the policewomen. "You will be arrested shortly and escorted to the Protester Removal Van. Resistance of any kind will not be tolerated!"

  Nobody moved.

  Nicola craned her neck, looking around for the rest of the Space Brigade. Gradually she picked them all out. Everyone seemed okay, although they all looked shaken and drenched.

  Would they be arrested, too? They wouldn't be much help to Shimlara's family if they were stuck in some jail.

  What would a real journalist do if she found herself in this situation?

  Nicola took a deep breath. A real journalist would report on the story.

  She stood up.

  "Are you out of your mind?" said the Volcomanian man.

  Nicola could see both Katie and Shimlara making frantic "Sit down!" gestures at her. She ignored them.

  "Citizen! Are you a slow learner?" boomed the policewoman.

  "I am not a citizen!" shouted Nicola, holding up her wet fake press card. "I am an Earthling journalist! My crew and I are here to report on the War on Whimsy." She pointed at her friends. "This is the Space--I mean, this is Space News from Channel, ah, Nine!" The rest of the Space Brigade stood up warily, trying hard to look dignified in their dripping tropical clothes. Together with Nicola, they picked their way through the protesters and puddles of water toward the policewomen. Nicola kept her eyes fixed on the giant hoses. She could see the policewomen were confused. They were talking nervously to one another.

  She heard one policewoman say, "Let's just hose them down!"

  Another one said, "But it's true Mrs. Mania doesn't like upsetting journalists from other planets."

  "They're only Earthling journalists."

  Greta spoke up. "I am the Space News producer. Obviously we only interview people in senior positions. Is there anyone qualified to appear on camera?" She gave a snooty sniff. "Or are you all . . . juniors?"

  That got the policewomen bristling. Suddenly they were all arguing with one another over who should be interviewed.

  "You can interview me! I'm perfectly qualified!"

  "Excuse me! I'm the most senior one here."

  "You! I've been in the police force since you were in diapers!"

  While the policewomen were all looking at one another, the Space Brigade exchanged smiles.

  "I'll interview all of you," said Nicola quickly.

  "Would you all like a little lipstick first?" offered Katie.

  Now the policewomen were transformed into giggly schoolgirls.

  "Ooh, what colors have you got?"

  "Have you got any strawberry lip gloss?"

  "With my coloring, I look best with a sort of orange-brown color."

  As the policewomen put down their hoses to crowd around Katie's beauty cases, Nicola noticed some of the protesters quietly getting to their feet and tiptoeing away.

  She scooted around to the other side of the policewomen so that they all had to face the opposite direction from the protesters. "Who wants to be interviewed first?"

  "I'm the most senior, you can interview me first," said the largest of the policewomen. She ran a fingernail around the edge of her lips and suddenly thrust her scaly-skinned face in front of Nicola with her teeth bared like a crocodile.

  Nicola reeled back in horror.

  "Do I have lipstick on my teeth?" asked the policewoman.

  "Ah, no, they're fine." Nicola sagged with relief.

  "We ready to roll?" asked Tyler, holding up the camera. Nicola hoped none of the policewomen would notice how much water was leaking out. Meanwhile Sean was squeezing water out of the sound equipment like it was a sponge.

  "Action!" said Greta briskly.

  Nicola spoke into her microphone. "I'm here now with a very senior member of the Volcomanian police force. These brave police have just cleverly overcome a protest against the War on Whimsy. Tell me--what will happen to these protesters now?"

  "They will be all taken to the Official Prisoner of War Camp on the Planet of Whimsy," answered the policewoman, darting nervous looks at the camera. "That's where all protesters against the war are being held."

  There was a muffled sound from Shimlara, who was watching the filming behind Sean and Tyler.

  Nicola's heart beat fast. This was her chance to find out exactly where Shimlara's family was being held.

  "Ah, yes," she said. "And where exactly is that camp situated?"

  "It's in Grid--" The policewoman stopped and clapped a hand over her mouth. "That's confidential information."

  "Of course, of course," said Nicola smoothly. "And I believe the camp is in the southwest of Whimsy?" Of course, she had no idea where the camp was located, but she knew that people loved nothing more than c
orrecting you when you made a mistake.

  "No, it's in the northeast," said the policewoman in a superior tone. Then she looked furious with herself. "Stop trying to trick me into giving you top secret information! You journalists are all the same!"

  "I understand," said Nicola. What else could she ask? She held out her microphone. "Are the prisoners treated well?"

  "Well, it's not like they deserve five-star luxury and volcano views," snapped the policewoman. "They're prisoners."

  "So I guess, you, ah, keep them in dark, dingy . . . caves?" hazarded Nicola.

  "That would be perfect but unfortunately there are no dark, dingy caves on Whimsy," said the policewoman. "They're at the bottom of a moun--"

  "What is going on here?"

  A sharp voice cracked like a whip from the other side of the road.

  The policewoman's red, scaly face turned a pale sort of pink color.

  "It's not her, is it?" she whispered desperately to Nicola. "Oh, please, please tell me it's not her!"

  "Quiet! "

  CHAPTER 15

  Nicola's hand tightened around her microphone.

  On the opposite side of the Blue-5 road a woman wearing a tailored white suit stepped gracefully out of a long, sleek black vehicle like a limousine, except with the sort of large chunky wheels you would see on a farm tractor. Even if Nicola hadn't recognized the woman from the photos the Globagaskar Chief of Special Intelligence had shown them, she would have known she was someone important. She radiated a powerful aura of authority.

  "Is it her?" said the policewoman without turning around.

  "I think it's Mrs. Mania," answered Nicola. "Your president."

  "Oh no." The policewoman cowered as if she'd been caught doing something bad by the school principal. "Is she coming this way?"

  "I think so," said Nicola sympathetically.

  Mrs. Mania was striding through the puddles of water toward the policewomen and the Space Brigade. (All of the protesters, including poor Bertha, had long since crept away.) A cluster of official-looking Volcomanians in suits and dark glasses followed Mrs. Mania, scanning the crowd and making terse remarks into earpieces.

  "What is going on here?" called out Mrs. Mania. "Who gave you permission to speak to the press? And where are the protesters?"

  "Oh, what have I done?" moaned the policewoman. She slapped her forehead rhythmically. "I'm such a fool! I was excited to be on television! It was the lipstick that tempted me."

  "Well, it did look lovely on you," offered Katie.

  "Nicola!" hissed Tyler in Nicola's ear. "We've got to get out of here before we're recognized by the Secret Service!"

  Recognized? Why would they be recognized? Suddenly Nicola remembered XYZ40 saying the Space Brigade has quite an intergalactic reputation.

  "Well, thank you so much for your time." Nicola grabbed the policewoman's hand and shook it. "We'll be off now!"

  The policewoman didn't take any notice of her. She was babbling to herself. "Fool, fool, fool!" The other members of the police force were all rubbing furiously at their lipstick with tissues and saying things like, "I said we shouldn't talk to the press!"

  "Let's go," said Nicola quietly to the others.They all began to sidle unobtrusively toward the school bus.

  "Wait!" called out Mrs. Mania. "I'd like to speak to you journalists!"

  The Space Brigade froze.

  Nicola didn't know what to do. If they ran, it would make them look suspicious, but if they stayed, one of the Secret Service might recognize them.

  Impossible, sick-feeling-in-the-stomach decisions.That was the worst part about leading the Space Brigade. Nicola looked at Greta, who stared blankly back at Nicola as if waiting for her to decide what to do. Mmmm,thought Nicola crossly. It's fine for me to be the leader when it gets hard isn't it, Greta?

  There was a sudden ruckus from Mrs. Mania's car. The back door was flung open and a figure catapulted out.

  It was a girl wearing a blue dress. She spun around on the spot, clutching her neck and screaming, "Help! Someone help me!"

  There was something very familiar about that voice.

  "I need help this instant!"

  "It's Princess Petronella," said Tyler.

  A stout, scaly-skinned young boy had also gotten out of the back of the car and was scratching his head as he watched the princess.

  "Mom!" he called to Mrs. Mania. "I think, umm--she's, ah--" He pointed hopelessly at the princess.

  Mrs. Mania turned around. So did the Secret Service.

  "I am choking to death!" cried Princess Petronella. "I am having an allergic reaction to the air! I am about to die!"

  "Oh dear, is she all right?" asked Katie.

  "I think she's creating a diversion for us," said Nicola. "Well, I hope that's what's she's doing. Quick! Let's go."

  The Space Brigade ran toward the bus.

  Shimlara threw herself down into the driver's seat, turned the key, and slammed her foot on the accelerator before anyone had a chance to sit down. They all fell around as the school bus took off, skidding across the wet road.

  "Whoops!" Shimlara seized hold of the wheel and spun it back in the opposite direction. Nicola managed to pull herself into a seat just in time to see the school bus narrowly miss smashing into Mrs. Mania's limousine. She caught a quick glimpse of Princess Petronella lying flat on her back next to the limousine with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. Nicola wasn't sure if she imagined the satisfied smirk on the princess's face.

  Anyway, they were free. The bus was heading off down the Blue-5 road and it seemed everyone was so focused on the princess, they hadn't even noticed the Space Brigade leaving.

  Good work, Princess Petronella.

  Nicola smiled at the thought of all the praise that the princess would expect when they saw her next.

  For a while, nobody said anything. They all sat in separate seats in their clammy, wet clothes, lost in their own thoughts. The only sound was the distant explosions of volcanoes. Shimlara now seemed to have the bus under control and drove it swiftly and capably. Nicola could see the Blue-5 road unfurling ahead of them like a length of ribbon. It curved to the left of the Volcomanian city ahead of them before disappearing into the fiery horizon.

  Nicola pressed her hand to a sore spot on her knee where she'd fallen on the road after the policewomen had hosed them down. It gave her a strange, almost dizzy feeling thinking about it. The protesters had been trying to stand up for something they believed in but they'd been treated like criminals.

  She took a deep, shaky breath.

  Pull yourself together, she admonished herself.

  "So let's summarize what we've learned," she said briskly.

  "Will there be a quiz afterward?" said Sean, as if she was a schoolteacher.

  Nicola ignored him.

  She held up her hand and counted off the points on her fingers.

  "We know that the prison camp is in the northeast of the Planet of Whimsy. We know that its name starts with something like Grid. And we know that it's at the bottom of a mountain."

  "We also know that the United Aunts are being held in the camp, too," said Shimlara.

  "Do we?" said Nicola. "How do we know that?"

  "I read Mrs. Mania's mind," said Shimlara. "As she was walking toward us, she was thinking, If these journalists find out we're holding the United Aunts in the prison camp, the entire galaxy will turn against us."

  "They actually kidnapped aunties," said Katie.

  "Although I don't think these are cuddly, cookie-baking aunties," said Tyler.

  "They're the most respected people in the galaxy," said Shimlara. "If we can rescue the United Aunts, we might be able to help end the War on Whimsy."

  "I think we should just focus on rescuing your family, Shimlara," said Greta. "Which is going to be hard enough without trying to end the war as well. That's crazy. Anyway, why didn't you just find out where your parents were when you read Mrs. Mania's mind? That's what I would have done."
>
  "When I read someone's mind I only hear what they're thinking at that exact time," said Shimlara sharply. "I can't read every thought they've ever thought! And unfortunately Mrs. Mania didn't happen to conveniently think about my parents."

  "Oh, what's this say?" interrupted Tyler, pointing at an approaching sign. He read it out loud. "Ten V-Miles to the Underground Sea. That must be a Volcomanian mile, which isn't really helpful to us!"

  "I can't wait to try out the scuba diving gear," said Sean.

  "Me neither," said Nicola untruthfully. She tried to imagine what it would be like to breathe underwater.

  "Why are you breathing funny?" said Sean, who was sitting in the seat in front of Nicola. He twisted around to look at her.

  "I'm not," said Nicola.

  "You sound like you've just run up thirty flights of stairs."

  "Leave me alone."

  Sean raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward. "You'll be fine," he said quietly. He knew that she didn't like diving underwater.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," said Nicola.

  Sean gave her a big brotherly smile and patted her hand.

  "You'll be fine," he said again, and turned back around to face the front of the bus.

  Nicola closed her eyes and tried to breathe slowly and quietly. I'd rather parachute out of a spaceship over active volcanoes than scuba dive through that Underground Sea.

  CHAPTER 16

  WELCOME TO THE UNDERGROUND SEA: ENTRANCE TO THE PLANET OF WHIMSY

  THEVOLCOMANIAN GOVERNMENT WOULD LIKE TO WARN ALLVISITORS THATWHIMSYIS NOTORIOUSFOR ITS LACK OF PRACTICALITY AND BASIC COMMON SENSE.

  WHILE SOME PEOPLE FIND THE PLANET "PRETTY AND INSPIRING," MOST SENSIBLE PEOPLE DESCRIBE IT AS "FRUSTRATING, FOOLISH, AND HOPELESSLY VAGUE." WE THEREFOREDO NOT RECOMMEND THE PLANET OF WHIMSY ASA PLEASANTTOURISTDESTINATIONANDSUGGESTTHATYOU STAY IN VOLCOMANIA AND ENJOY THE CONVENIENCE AND VOLCANO VIEWS (OF WHICH THERE ARE NONE IN WHIMSY).

  YOURSSINCERELY,

  THEVOLCOMANIAN GOVERNMENT

  SIGN NUMBER: 1049808509808508

  AUTHORIZATION CODE: 494-809

  The Space Brigaders were all wearing the scuba diving suits provided by JJ-11 and reading a large sign on the shore of a small, ugly lake. The water was dark brown, with patches of grease floating on top, like something left over in an unwashed pot.

  Everywhere they looked they could see evidence of the war being waged on Whimsy. Huge, empty buses were parked in orderly lines, each with the words, VOLCOMANIAN ARMY--WE WIN WARS! in block letters along the side. Nicola looked down and saw what looked like thousands of deep footprints in the mud, obviously left by the soldiers' boots as they marched to the lake. There were drag marks where weapons must have been pulled across the ground, and signs still standing with instructions like: LINE UP HERE FOR PROVISIONS and RESTOCKYOUR AMMUNITION HERE.