Sovereign 2, part a- Warshot Loaded, By John Nowak

Chip 'n' Dale's Rescue Rangers are copyright and trademarked by the Disney corporation. No infringement is intended.

Completed April 26, 1999

[I goofed up the chronology in part one. Widget left home seven years ago, not ten.]

[Syril Stacey appears with the kind permission of Aivars Liepa.]

From a distance, Mrs. Shapiro looked like a chipmunk, down to the pattern along her back. She was actually a striped ground squirrel, quite a bit bigger than a chipmunk. It made for some awkward moments because it was hard to explain you weren't a chipmunk without sounding defensive. And she was a little nervous, because she had never had to talk to the designer before.

She was going in to Widget's cabin through the back way, instead of through the door on the bridge, because she didn't want to give the impression she had a complaint. She hesitated a long moment before touching the intercom button beside the Captain's cabin's door. Widget Hackwrench had many adjectives applied to her, but "approachable" was not one of them. Mrs. Shapiro would have preferred to bring this up with Captain Jürgen, but he was back in Staten City watching them build the _Cuttlefish._ Mrs. Shapiro couldn't wait for him; she was due for her bimonthly medical later in the day, and she wasn't sure if the Pharmacist's Mate could or even should keep secrets.

"Shapiro, ma'am. Do you have a minute?"

"Come in," the intercom said immediately.

Mrs. Shapiro entered the room and was confused for a moment; she didn't see the boat's owner anywhere. "Up here," Widget called from the bunk. Pink eyes looked down at her from the raised bed. "I'm sorry for not getting up," Widget apologized. "This one's having a clingy day."

Gimcrack nestled more tightly against his mother when she shifted and hugged her a little closer. He was afraid she might decide to leave him or send him away after Cassandra's prophesy, and he lacked any other way to communicate this.

"The plan right now is to leave port tomorrow, take our passengers to Atlantis, and then go to Icelab 5," Widget said immediately. "You should see your husband again in nine days, barring unexpected changes to the schedule."

Mrs. Shapiro smiled. "Thank you, ma'am. Do you remember our layover there in October?"

"Yes..." Widget sounded guarded.

"I think I'm pregnant, ma'am."

Widget grinned widely. "That's wonderful! Congratulations!"

Inwardly, Mrs. Shapiro sighed in relief. She hadn't worked much with Widget, who spent most of her time in engineering, and suspected she was lucky to have caught her employer in Mommy Mode. "I won't know for sure until after Mr. McKyle runs some tests, of course, but I'm fairly certain."

"So what are your plans?"

"Well, I want to talk it over with my husband, first. But I'd like to know what my options are."

Widget looked thoughtful. "Well, we hadn't really planned to turn _Albacore_ into a nursery, but," she glanced down at her son, "that seems to have happened anyway. And I know the Captain would be very disappointed to lose you."

"I can stay aboard?" Mrs. Shapiro asked anxiously. Despite Mrs. Shapiro's hedging about discussing it with her husband, Widget had very little doubt what their decision would be.

"I'll want to talk it over with the Captain before I promise anything," Widget reminded her. She couldn't imagine Jürgen protesting, especially since they had set a precedent. Already she was shifting bulkheads in her mind. They were currently using her old meditation chamber for storage, but there was no reason it couldn't become a daycare center. With two babies aboard, it might make sense to get a full-time care provider - who might also serve as a safety net if Cassandra was right about Widget. "But," she said, "I'll do what I can."

"Well," David Crustsnatcher said cheerfully, "It could have been worse."

"How?" Karl Jürgen asked immediately.

"I'm not sure," David admitted.

He and Karl were carrying boxes of Lemming 2000 fliers - unopened, and unasked for. They had only cracked one box and that was more than two thirds full. "We'll need to see if we have enough personal baggage allotment to take these back home," David said thoughtfully. "That way, we won't need to pay to have them shipped -"

Karl took the opened box and gave it a kick worthy of the soccer goalie he was. The box overturned, scattering fliers about Lemming 2000 in its flight path, a beautiful arc up, over the edge of the balcony, and dropping out of sight as it and the fliers it contained plummeted to the lower level.

"That works, too," David said neutrally.

Karl rested his head in one hand. For one beautiful moment, it had felt good.

"Sorry," he finally said. "I'll go pick them up."

David grinned. "Let's do that. Then we go buy a decent lunch, on me. Okay?"

"We usually hold graduation ceremonies here in the Ratisson's convention center," Admiral Feldmows said to Jürgen. "I just hope those chipmunks move on - I don't want my people getting blamed for that sort of thing."

Jürgen nodded solemnly. Nobody in authority had ever figured out who was responsible for the bizarre events of the last week - the harassment of reporters in bathrooms, firing elevators through the roof, smashing windows, drugging police, the conversion of the rotating restaurant into a 10g centrifuge, sparking a riot by dissing the Avro Arrow within hearing of a group of Canadian beavers. Jürgen, who knew more about it than he would admit, didn't trust himself to keep a straight face if he spoke. And Feldmows was, at heart, an orderly mouse who despised rowdies.

"We're also graduating our first class of submarine officers," Feldmows went on. "Sharp group of cadets. In fact, they're so sharp they finished their syllabus a week early."

"Impressive. What will you have them do?"

"Oh, the commandant of the school could come up with something useless to keep them busy. But truth is, I'd rather give them a week long seminar with the fourth most successful U-boat commander of the war and the skipper of the only Nimnul Generator powered sub in the world." Feldmows looked at Jürgen. "You up for it?"

"Starting when?"

"Next week. I know that isn't much time to prepare, but -"

It was Saturday. "That's no time to prepare," Jürgen corrected, scratching his chin.

"It'll be a piece of cake," Feldmows assured him. "Heck, you remember what it was like when you were in the academy - just by showing up, just by letting them know that the stuff they read about in history books was real, you'll be making an impression. And you can tell them how you sank the _Mahan_ in exercises, and a couple of old war stories like we've been swapping. It'll be fun."

The more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed to Jürgen. Talking to a room full of cadets did sound fun. It would mean an unexpected change to the schedule, but there was no reason to rush. The crew would like an extra week of leave.

Besides, it was flattering. He had spent the war commanding U- boats, swinging between weeks of agonizing boredom and a few hours of terror, under living conditions that would never be tolerated in a prison. After the war was over he had come the ugly realization that all he and his friends had accomplished was to delay the liberation of the camps for a few weeks. All his sacrifices had been worse than useless; they had merely prolonged the suffering on both sides and plunged his homeland deeper into irredeemable disgrace.

Then had come years of plowing through the water in container ships, chafing like an Indy 500 driver forced to drive a practical station wagon. He had felt himself, his talents, eroding, growing foggy, until an icy female mouse from America hunted him down in a dockside bar and showed him the plans for _Albacore._

Before he met her, he felt he was growing old and dying. Never since.

"You'll want to clear it with your wife, first," Feldmows said innocently.

Despite the fact he liked Feldmows, Jürgen had to admit the short, stocky admiral could push his buttons. Feldmows had come off second best in enough design meetings to know Widget Hackwrench was more Walküre than Hausfrau, yet he had a habit of saying "your wife" in precisely the correct tone to imply something slightly shameful. "I don't believe that will be a problem," Jürgen said politely. "If I prepare -"

A cardboard box leaving a trail of fliers in its wake crashed to the linoleum in front of them and split open. Feldmows put out a hand and plucked one of the fluttering sheets of paper out of the air.

A few moments later, two young rodents came down the stairs, laughing between themselves. Feldmows' whiskers twitched with distaste. Rowdies.

"I'm sorry," the shorter one immediately said with a contrite expression. "The box slipped out of my hands. Are you all right?"

Feldmows was going to reply politely and pretend to believe, when he noticed the way Jürgen and the taller one were eyeing one another. He had a distinct impression they were sizing one another up.

"Karl," Jürgen finally said with a nod.

"Vater," Karl replied with a similar nod.

"How did the convention go for you?" Jürgen asked, a bit too politely.

"Not as well as I would have liked," Karl shrugged. "Since we don't blow people up, the interest isn't there."

"Ah," Jürgen clicked his tongue sympathetically, and looked pointedly at the fliers that were still drifting down. "Don't underestimate the value of a first impression, either."

"So!" Feldmows said brightly, clasping his hands. "Karl, is it? I didn't know your father was married twice." He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. Karl shot his father a hostile glance before offering Feldmows a hand to shake.

"I can't say I'm surprised. I'm Karl Jürgen, and this is David Crustsnatcher."

"Tom Feldmows."

"Mom was killed during the war," Karl explained. "Dad wasn't there, of course."

"A lot of us weren't," Feldmows said gently. "It's not an easy life."

"Unless you marry the ship's owner."

"Will you need some help cleaning up your mess, again?" Jürgen asked politely.

"I'm not sure if I understand your use of the word 'again,'" Karl asked with a puzzled expression.

At this point, Jürgen switched to German, as did Karl. Shortly thereafter, it ceased to be a conversation as they started trying to shout one another down.

"Y'know," David said to Feldmows, "I've heard the most dangerous place in the world is between a parent and a child, but never in quite this context."

"I think I saw a bar upstairs," Feldmows agreed. "I'll buy."

In Central Park, an ever - widening ring of birds, squirrels, rats, and insects fled from the center. Mothers carried their children; cats and mice fled, shoulder to shoulder, their usual competition forgotten in the face of a terrible, shared enemy. Dogs on leashes spread their legs, braced themselves, and whined piteously as their owners tried to pull them closer to ground zero. Every creature with a nervous system was nervous. Save only Homo Sapiens, the one species in the animal kingdom native to Central Park that did not share the fear of a "Code Gadget."

"I don't think I've ever seen you test a new plane without flying it," Monterey commented.

"The Ranger Rocket, Mark II, is the first thing I've built with an autopilot. That's because I'm not sure a living pilot can remain conscious during launch," Gadget explained brightly. She inserted a safety key. A light glowed like the eye of a demon. "Continuity. Is everyone ready?" she asked, as though offering a slice of cake.

Zipper pulled the strap on his steel helmet a little tighter and looked at the sandbags between him, Monty, Gadget, and Gadget's latest brainstorm. He had adopted a somewhat fatalistic attitude, believing that nothing would save him if one of Gadget's inventions had his name on it.

"Didja run the static tests, like you promised yer Uncle Monty?" Monterey asked Gadget, a tone of pleading disapproval already slipping in.

"Well, sort of," Gadget explained. "Remember that explosion last night?"

"The new engine failed the static tests?" Monty asked.

"I wouldn't say 'fail,' exactly," Gadget pondered. "The engine overheated and the fuel tank exploded."

It was two heartbeats before Gadget realized the other Rangers seemed to expect an explanation.

Zipper asked hesitantly. He wasn't sure if he was asking something stupid.

"Well," Gadget explained, "Most of the cooling to the engine comes from the slipstream. So I expected a burnthrough in the combustion chamber followed by energetic disassembly of the entire vehicle. It just happened a lot faster than I thought it would."

"Gadget," Monty said softly. "If there is any love in your heart for me, any gratitude for what I've done for you, please, reconsider."

"Ten," Gadget said with a bright smile. "Nine ..."

Zipper was trying to see how deep a foxhole he could dig in ten seconds. Monterey dropped behind the sandbags with a resigned sigh.

Four meters away on the pad, a spray of high-pressure nitrous oxide escaped its high-quality double-walled Nissan stainless steel vacuum flask, combining with a similar spray of propane from a factory- loaded camp stove bottle. Where the highly explosive sprays combined, a conventional A3-0T solid propellant rocket engine made to exacting standards by the Estes corporation fired, both providing a bit of extra thrust and igniting the mixture. The hot gases escaped at high speed through the only available exit, at the back of the engine, pushing the vehicle forward.

The Ranger Rocket Mark II shuddered and began to slide slowly up the launch ramp. At this point, the propane / nitrous oxide mix inside melted a small hole in the side of the combustion chamber. Burnthrough. Hotter than a welder's torch, the plasma blasted through the new exit, widening it rapidly. By happenstance, this jet played on the base of the propane fuel tank.

Lying on the ground, Monty peeked up at Gadget's face, smiling gently, absorbed in watching the steel bird leaving its nest. An instant later, a flash overwhelmed the noon sun, outlining Gadget in a ghastly red light, transforming her momentarily into the vision of an angel of fire and death.

Reflexively, Monterey looked back at the roiling clouds of flame that boiled upwards from where the Ranger Rocket (Mark II) had recently stood. For a moment, he fancied he saw Gadget's face in the explosion, laughing with the carefree innocence of a child.

The explosion, or "energetic disassembly", as Gadget might have insisted, took only a moment. The open skeleton structure of the launch pad provided little resistance to the shock wave and thus remained intact. The magnificently designed Nissan thermos was unscathed in the blast, and blown clear. Of all the parts left, it was to reach the highest altitude. Incredibly, most of the fuselage survived. The fuel tanks were gone, but the cockpit and main airframe sat quietly on the scorched skeleton of where they had been.

The onboard computer, unaware it had never actually left the pad, allowed time for the fuel to expend and for the Ranger Rocket to reach altitude. Since it had no input from the manual controls, and assuming the pilot to still be unconscious, it extended the wings neatly to the 45 degree angle practical for a supersonic glider. A moment later, they swept further forward to a 90 degree angle, more efficient for speeds below two hundred knots. An airspeed of zero clearly qualified in the opinion of the computer.

The onboard gyroscopes, naturally, told the computer it was sitting on its tail. Before it tried to navigate to the target, control had to be established. The elevator on the remaining horizontal stabilizer fluttered, trying to level the aircraft out. After several seconds of this, the computer decided the Ranger Rocket was experiencing a massive control failure. Since the Rocket was in low speed mode, the computer set off the emergency parachute. A soft pop and the white and orange Mylar canopy blew out and unrolled limply down the back of the motionless aircraft.

"Wow," Gadget said with a wide smile. "That was even better than I hoped."

Monty and Zipper blinked rapidly. "One more time?" Monty finally asked.

"Even after the complete detonation of all the onboard propellants, the crew compartment remained intact." Gadget was trying not to brag but her eyes sparkled with pride. "This may turn out to be the safest aircraft I've ever built."

Privately, Monterey agreed, but he meant it in a very different way.

"Of course, I'm not happy with the way it blew up," Gadget added, lest her friends think she was developing a swelled head. "Still a few bugs to work out - no offense, Zipper. You know," she said thoughtfully, "I'm kind of glad the chipmunks are off training. It's neat to have the chance to really focus on something big and complicated."

Zipper smiled weakly.

Before he and Dale had left to learn how to operate shell suits, Chip had extracted a promise from Monterey - sealed by the most horrible of vows - that the remaining three Rangers would stay out of trouble. Monty had been afraid to the bottom of his adventurous soul this would lead to two weeks of mind-numbing tedium. Now, Gadget's casual promise to do nothing more than work on a few inventions resounded in Monty's head like the mocking laughter of a Delphic oracle.

The chipmunks had officially been gone for five hours, and already Monty longed for a quiet afternoon being roughed up by Rat Capone's thugs or being trussed up and tossed onto conveyer belts.

Some distance away a Human couple paused in their delicious picnic lunch and glanced at one another in consternation with the explosion.

"Maybe that was the World Trade Center again," he suggested, unaware that the explosion's sound -- a sharp crack rather than a dull boom -- indicated it was nearby.

"I suppose," she said, shrugging negligently. In folklore and fact, it is difficult to impress a New Yorker. They didn't notice the Nissan vacuum flask flying end over end to land, softly, next to the basket. "I didn't know you bought a new thermos," she exclaimed.

He looked down and frowned. "Isn't that your thermos?"

Their argument continued long into the afternoon.

Shell suits were similar to the Jim and Wasp diving suits built by Humans. They looked like a battlesuit from one of Dale's Japanese manga, except they were neither graceful nor attractive. Moving inside of one was out of the question, unless water was buoying it up. Just looking at it, Chip was having doubts. It would be hard to transport - certainly not something they could just toss into the back seat of the Ranger Wing. Even disassembled and collapsed, they would make a hefty load for Monty, and would be too small to fit him.

"Have you ever used a diving suit?" Andy asked. He was a small, slender mole with glasses. Andy was one of the power plant engineers - "stoker," Chip understood was the term used on _Albacore._ He also maintained the shell suits.

Chip shook his head. "Not personally. Gadget built one that used a hose to the surface."

Andy nodded. "A hard hat with an umbilical. They're good if you can keep the hose from tangling, but if you're working in a wreck, that's hard to do."

"Right," Chip agreed. "Why don't you use scuba gear?" Chip had thought that would be a perfect answer, but apparently not.

"If you shrink a scuba tank down, the wall gets thin," Andy explained. "That means you can't have much pressure inside it. So even though we don't breathe as much as a Human does, a tank small enough for us to carry would only hold a few minutes' worth of air."

"But don't these use pressurized air?" Chip asked, pointing at the shell suit.

"If you go ten meters under water with a scuba suit, you're at two atmospheres of pressure. You use twice as much air when you breathe. A shell suit keeps you at one atmosphere, so you don't use as much air."

"And there's no risk of nitrogen narcosis, or the bends." They had never actually used Gadget's diving suit on a case, but Chip knew there were animals living in the sewers. And sewers sometimes flooded in rainstorms, and hoses could foul.

"Exactly. They're bulky - that's the big problem."

The watertight bulkhead hatch opened and Widget stepped through. Andy smiled and Chip nodded respectfully. Chip privately suspected Andy of a crush, and a relatively strong one if it survived her having someone else's baby.

For himself, he was uncertain what tone he should go for. In an emotional low point during her pregnancy, Widget had clutched him while desperately rattling off a long and horrific litany of physical discomforts as he winced inside, patted her head, and went "Aw." Somehow it seemed wrong to presume on that in front of her crew on her ship. "Ma'am" was too formal, "Widget" not formal enough... it seemed best to maintain a slight courteous distance.

"I thought I'd find you here," Widget nodded. "Do you think you can use it?"

"I think there's a lot of potential," Chip agreed. "Most of the time Gadget will build something and we'll find it useful in ways we don't expect."

"Well, you'll have plenty of time to decide. We'll get you to Atlantis in time to start the latest shell suit class, and Andy's agreed to get your feet wet."

Chip nodded. "Thank you for the help. You and your crew are being very generous."

"There's not a lot of people I'd do it for," Widget said, trying to sound casual.

Dale was walking down a hall when he heard the unmistakable clash of two pins striking one another. Suspecting he was missing a swashbuckling movie, he opened a bulkhead and stepped into a small gym.

Despite the success of _Albacore's_ Darned Nearly Recoilless teams in more than one clash, Jürgen had felt the need to encourage study in the armed arts. Fortunately, one of the torpedo mechanics had turned out to be an expert fencer who was happy to share his skill.

Dale had known some of _Albacore's_ crew had a somewhat shady past, but this was the first time he had actually recognized someone who had run afoul of the Rangers. Mister Calvert was taking instruction from Helmut von Kugleblitz. Dale worried for a moment about being recognized, then smiled when he recalled it was unlikely. In any event, Helmut was probably already aware the Rangers were aboard. With a grin, Dale leaned against the wall.

"Try again, slowly," Helmut ordered. The First Watch Officer complied, running through a simple pattern of thrust - thrust - parry.

"Maybe you should lunge with the thrust," Dale suggested.

Helmut and Mr. Calvert looked over at the chipmunk. Helmut smiled and Mr. Calvert tried to suppress a bristle. He still hadn't entirely forgiven Dale for the deception in Fat Cat's.

"Do you fancy yourself a fencer, sir?" Helmut asked with a hint of sarcasm.

A slow grin covered Dale's face. "Yup."

"Sir, with your permission?" Helmut asked Mr. Calvert politely.

"By all means," Calvert agreed, offering Dale his mask and foil with a smirk. The squirrel's mask wasn't a good fit, but it would do - Dale doubted it would be needed. Dale slashed the air twice with the foil to feel the heft and balance.

"Sabers are better," Dale observed. "But this is okay."

"Would you care to warm up with a few slow practice thrusts?" Helmut asked.

"Nah, thanks, von Kugleblitz." Dale assumed an en garde position, rear foot sideways, forward toes facing his opponent. His fist rested lightly against the small of his back, weapon low and its point raised.

Von Kugleblitz assumed the schlager position Dale remembered from their last encounter; hilt higher than his own head and point low. "En Garde."

Von Kugleblitz took the offensive, holding back to get the measure of his man. Instead of making attacks, the two focused on one another's weapons, making them ring, slowly at first, and then gradually increasing in speed, as Helmut pressed his onslaught, holding back less and less. Calvert watched the blades flash and his jaw began to drop. He had never seen someone hold his own against von Kugleblitz for so long.

Dale pressed von Kugleblitz's weapon down, tip touching the floor. In an actual fight, Dale would have found it a simple matter to break the foil. Instead, he tapped his foot against the ground, asking for a respite.

"This style..." Helmut muttered. "I know this style."

Immediately, the two disengaged. "You left handed, Graf von Kugleblitz?" Dale asked. "Nice of you not to take advantage of an opponent, but I spar against a southpaw all the time."

"Thank you sir," Helmut said, shifting his weapon to his dominant hand.

In the second bout, Dale had to shift downwards, to place von Kugleblitz's high-weapon style at a disadvantage. Von Kugleblitz began to tire rapidly. His attacks became wild, and slowly lost their tight, controlled pattern. The chipmunk did not yield an inch.

Von Kugleblitz called a time out. "We have met before, sir. I am afraid you have the advantage of me."

Dale's mouth parted in a predatory grin. "The chandelier in the Paris Opera."

Von Kugleblitz froze. "No ... it cannot be!"

Dale's voice shifted upwards several octaves. "Pair'aps you will remembair now?"

"Gasp!" Von Kugleblitz gasped. "_The Contessa!_"

Every small animal had heard of The Contessa, the beautiful chipmunk who, like the Californian fox known as "El Hombre", used saber and guile in a battle against those who would take advantage of the weak and unfortunate.

"_He's_ The Contessa?" Mister Calvert asked, dubiously and thoroughly weirded out.

"Well, not really," Dale admitted. "I just kinda stood in for her once when she broke a knee after a bad landing."

Von Kugleblitz, eyes blazing, lept into a dramatic toe-to-toe clench with the chipmunk. "So the fates have delivered you into my hands," he snarled. "The hour of vengeance is nigh, thwarter of my destiny."

"Sparkling schnapps was a bad idea," Dale countered, eyes blazing. "Even if you had been able to turn all the champagne in the world into carbonated vinegar."

"Enough!" roared von Kugleblitz. "My blade speaks for me!"

"_He's_ The Contessa?" Mister Calvert asked, dubiously and thoroughly weirded out.

Von Kugleblitz' rage imparted to him a berserk fury, but deprived him of art and skill. After a furious clatter of parries, the Graf's weapon spun into the air. Leaning forward, Dale quickly carved a "D" into the padding on Helmut's doublet.

"_He's_ The Contessa?" Mister Calvert asked, dubiously and thoroughly weirded out.

Panting furiously, von Kugleblitz, defeated but unbowed, barked defiance. "This is just the beginning, Alvin," he hissed. "It is not an end."

"Yes it is," Mister Calvert said mildly, finally collecting himself. "Dale is a guest aboard."

"What is that to me?" snarled the torpedo mechanic.

"One: I outrank you," Mister Calvert said. "Two, the bilges could use polishing."

"Let us put our quarrel behind us," von Kugleblitz immediately said, "and allow me to offer you my hand in comradely friendship."

"Gladly," Dale agreed, and they shook hands warmly.



Mentally, Jürgen was kicking himself all the way back to _Albacore._ He should never have made a one-week commitment without discussing it with his wife. And then to let Karl get the best of him, in front of an outsider. Two strikes.

Mister Calvert was standing watch on the bridge. Widget was at the computer station, observing as CPO Barra hunt-and-pecked. The massive, bullet-shaped rat was being cross-trained; Jürgen was privately astonished Widget had been able to cajole him into touching a keyboard. Chief Barra had learned the sea on the wooden sail-driven vessels rodents used before compact diesels; he had accepted metal hulls and steamships with the greatest of reluctance, let alone submarines and the powerful little Pentiums (Pentia?) that ran so many of the boat's functions.

"I'm done," he rumbled. "How do I send it, ma'am?"

"Press 'Queue.' That puts the message in the 'Out' box. Then every hour, the computer will try to post it." Widget was using her softest voice, carrying Gimcrack in a sling. Jürgen felt a stab of sorrow. An era was over; the Digital Age had officially begun. The Chief of the Boat was composing email.

"Widget?" Jürgen asked when he was sure he wouldn't be interrupting. "I think we should delay sailing by a week."

Widget looked startled for a moment. "There's a complication," she evaded. "Let's discuss it." She tilted her head in the direction of the door to their cabin.

Chief Barra was far too respectful to listen in on a conversation between a husband and wife, but he figured Widget and Jürgen were officers, so it didn't count. The fact Widget wanted to discuss this privately set off a small alarm bell. What was important enough (in the Captain's opinion) to keep _Albacore_ in dock an extra week, and what would Widget know that neither the Captain nor the Chief did which would overrule that?

"What came up?" Widget asked when the door closed.

"Feldmows asked me to run the submariner cadet classes next week."

Widget whistled. "That's a good opportunity. I'm glad you jumped on it." Although Widget was designing Staten City's Navy, there was no "official" link of any sort between _Albacore_ and Staten City. Personal contacts among officers could be very useful.

"But there's a complication?" he asked.

"Mrs. Shapiro's going to have a baby."

Jürgen closed his eyes and sighed. "And her husband is in Icelab 5."

"Exactly. We can't reschedule their getting together. It wouldn't be fair." Widget shook her head. "Especially when it's almost Christmas."

"No," Jürgen agreed. "I'm sure Feldmows will give me a hotel room." He smiled at her, and took her lightly into his arms. "Why not take Gimcrack and stay with me? You could visit some museums, maybe your sister since the Rangers will be taking it easy."

Widget had seen a "Code Gadget" while Jürgen had not. She shuddered momentarily at the thought of exposing Gimcrack. Besides...

"I've got to get to Icelab 5 as soon as I can," she pointed out. "There might be problems with Doctor Buckeye and the Nimnul Generator. We really need to equip them with another radiothermal generator as soon as we can."

"Mister Calvert can run the boat."

"I know. But Doctor Buckeye knows Atlantis is getting more support from _Albacore_ than Icelab 5 is. Palming this off on Mister Calvert on top of ordering him to shut off the Nimnul generator... it's sending the wrong message." She hesitated, and brightened. "Maybe if we caught a ride on a Peregrine -"

"We'd have to parachute out of an aircraft above the polar icecap with a six-month old baby," Jürgen finished for her.

"Oh. Not a good idea," she agreed.

He sighed and shook his head. "This is my fault. I'm sorry."

"No," she disagreed. "You saw an opportunity, you took it. You stay in Staten City, and I'll go to Icelab 5."

He squeezed her gently. "It's the first time we've split up since Gimcrack was born." It brought back bad memories, a long period of worry, the shameful feeling he was not doing his proper duty, and more than once, the cold fear that his wife would die without him. Again.

"One big difference." She slowly let a smile creep over her face. "This time, we can say goodbye properly."

Chief Barra stepped away from the bulkhead separating the bridge and the Captain's cabin, and wordlessly hung a "Do Not Disturb" sign. Even officers deserved some privacy.

Dale rarely slept through the night, as though some part of him was continually waking him to make sure he wasn't missing something interesting on TV. Chip, on the other hand, slept with a kind of single minded no nonsense self discipline which did not tolerate deviations from the schedule. And so, it was with some surprise he noted the glow of a book light emanating from Chip's lower bunk.

Dale peeked. Chip was propped up in bed, staring sadly at a photograph. Dale couldn't see who it was, but he didn't need to. Dale popped back into his bunk, emitted a loud, theatrical, stage yawn, thrashed under the covers for a moment, smacked his chops once or twice, and hove himself over the side to land on the floor. He came to his feet, turned around, and pretended to "just notice" his friend, who was now mysteriously halfway through _The Mouse With a Twisted Lip._

"You're not asleep?" Dale asked.

"How could I? You snore," Chip replied, not taking his eyes off the book.

Dale sat down on Chip's bed. "Yeah, sorry. That's what Foxglove says."

Chip did a double take. "Uh ..." he began, not sure what to say. Although Dale had always been in bed when Chip woke up, there was no reason he couldn't have snuck away. Dale and Foxglove had been breaking some long standing snuggle records recently...

Dale looked at Chip and repressed a smile. "She can hear it right through the wall. She says she homes in on it at night."

"Oh," Chip released a sigh of relief.

"I'm going to miss her."

"It's only two weeks." Chip saw a hurt expression flicker over his friend's face, and hastily added, "I'm sorry. Since I'm not in love, I have some problems understanding."

Dale looked at his oldest friend for a long moment. He knew Chip well, and he knew asking the next question would take all the subtlety and tact he had.

"Chip, how come you don't hit on Gadget any more? She tell you to get lost?"

Blue water ships run on a 24/7 schedule. There is always some noise and muffled sounds associated with them, especially on the night before sailing. The only exception to this rule is an advanced submarine, like _Albacore._ Such vessels are silent, like libraries, churches, and cats. Quieter than the ocean they patrol. It was very quiet in their cabin.

Chip took out his Bonk Log and made a mark. He hesitated, and made a second one, putting it away before he answered.

"No," Chip said. He looked back at his book and studied it for a long moment. "I just don't think it would be a good idea."

"Why? I thought maybe you were just after her because I was, like it was a game or something. But you really like her. What changed?"

"You'd take it the wrong way," Chip said reluctantly.

"You're a chipmunk, she's a mouse?"

"And we couldn't have a baby," Chip finished. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to imply anything about you and Foxglove."

"It's kind of premature to talk about babies with a girl you're not even dating," Dale pointed out. "That's not the reason."

"It's one of them. I just don't think it would work," Chip muttered, staring at his book.

"Name another," Dale asked, folding his arms.

Chip hesitated. "Dale, what if I get myself killed? Or what if she gets killed?"

"It would hurt pretty bad," Dale agreed. "Of course, it wouldn't feel very good anyway, so what's the diff?"

"It would be worse."

"Probably. But I don't think my mom and dad would have traded what they shared for a shorter mourning period."

"No. I don't think they would have." Chip turned back to his book, and looked up as though struck by a thought. He lay his book down.

"Dale, you remember when you said Widget was a crime fighter for a while?"

"That's what she told me. But they went bad and she had to destroy what she built for them."

"Did she give you any dates?"

"No. Why?"

"Because back in ninety-one a vigilante group sprang up on the lower East side of Manhattan. Nightsword."

"I remember them," Dale said, growing pale. "They were criminals, not crime fighters!"

"Eventually," Chip agreed. "Not at first. They were shut down in the spring of '93."

To Dale, it seemed a very long time ago. "Gosh. How old was Widget then?"

"A bit over seventeen," Chip said thoughtfully.

Dale watched as his friend stared at the upper bunk for a few moments. Then he looked back at his book, and Dale knew he wouldn't get anything else out of Chip tonight.

Gimcrack struggled in his crib, and finally managed to roll over. When he was younger, he had thought his father and mother were fighting when they tucked him away in his nursery like this. But now that he had seen six full moons, he understood this wasn't so. They both sounded too happy afterwards. Of course, he was glad his parents were happy, but sometimes he wished they would be a little quieter.

Jürgen had fired up a session on the administrative server to write some notes for the upcoming week, but naturally, he started by reading his email. One had caught his attention:

To: JJJ@Woods_Hole.org

We have met in the past, but for the moment I prefer to remain anonymous. There are dark forces moving against your family, and they could threaten me as well.

Your wife's grandfather has never forgiven your wife's mother for marrying against his wishes. The Catbane family has connections with other clans, long alliances forged in blood and marriage relations. Despite the democratic mask he wears for politics in America, Jerome Catbane considers your wife, sister-in-law, and son both tainted by Geegaw Hackwrench's blood, at the same time they are the best representatives of the Catbanes in their generations. Yet none of them would tolerate being directed to marry someone acceptable to Jerome.

As such, they pose a potential threat to Catbane's legacy. He needs a pretext to move against them; once he get it, he will. He would rather see this branch pruned than risk its flourishing more than the tree.

-- Deep Stoat

"Widget, take a look at this," he said.

Widget peeked over his shoulder. "Oh, you got one too?" she asked casually. She turned around to give him a peck on the cheek; stopping when she saw how serious his expression was.

"It's crank mail," she assured him.

"This 'Deep Stoat' knows you're his granddaughter."

She sighed. "It's not a state secret. I'll admit he's not on my list of favorite people just now, but I know him and he's not a snob, let alone a murderous one."

"I'm sure he's very charming and persuasive, but he's enough of a snob to disown his daughter and granddaughters."

"True," Widget agreed doubtfully. "Still, he's not some kind of maniac. He's a respected statesman."

Jürgen pursed his lips. "Which makes two politicians I've heard that about."

Widget hesitated. In her opinion, Jürgen was worried over nothing. Still, ignoring or belittling his concerns would be disrespectful, and she had never had a problem in admitting she might be wrong. "That's fair," she agreed. "If you can be wrong, so can I. I'll forward this to Gadget, and I'll ask her Chip to pursue it with discretion once he's back in New York. In the meantime, I'll be careful with myself and Gimcrack. Deal?"

He grinned at her. "You probably think I'm being paranoid."

"I think you're being careful." She kissed his nose and put her arm around him. "Feel better?"

Jürgen stood, ducking his head to fit under the bunk. He smiled back at her and stroked her face. "Much better."

She gave him a crooked smile. "How much better?"

"Very, very, much better," he assured her. They laughed and he suddenly turned serious. "Be careful. I couldn't stand to lose you."

Instead of answering in words, she closed her eyes and kissed him. Jürgen did not say "hominahominahomina" for he was a gentleman of the old school. He did, however, think it.

Gadget pulled her robe a little bit tighter and paced the landing branch. Usually, she slept well and woke early, filled with energy and a cheerful desire to Build Things, as though her brain worked through the night and her hands had to catch up.

She was having problems sleeping tonight; she felt uncertain and uncomfortable, as though there was something important left undone. She tried to tell herself she was just overreacting to a vicious prank, and that it was perfectly normal to feel a little edgy after threatening email. Still, she knew that wasn't it. If it were, she'd be unable to get the message from Deep Stoat out of her mind.

Instead, she felt herself drifting mentally, running in circles. She flicked through checklists in her imagination. Nothing to do with maintenance. Ranger Rocket Mark III (using kerosene and a different engine) was in fine shape, and she was sure tomorrow's test would be even more successful than today's - the Ranger Rocket might even leave the ground and return intact. Everything she thought of had been accomplished or was on schedule. But she was still restless, unfocussed.

And why had she woken up embracing her pillow?

She knew why, of course. She didn't want to admit it. She put a hand to her mouth, closed her eyes. No, she thought silently, desperately. Not again. She didn't want to deal with this feeling another time, with its mingled hunger and excitement and shame and heartbreak. Not again. Especially not with a friend.

Foxglove orbited around the tree, hunting unsuccessfully. It was a warm December but quite cold for her; bat wings radiated heat and flying was becoming uncomfortable. Casually, she started to direct more and more of her attention to the pensive mouse staring off into the darkness.

Of course, to Foxglove, darkness barely existed. Gadget was completely unaware she was the target of one of the most efficient nocturnal sensor packages in the animal kingdom, coupled to a stealth airframe with astonishing low-speed characteristics. Foxglove rarely thought of herself in such terms, so she can probably not be faulted for landing silently (as far as Gadget was concerned) next to the mouse, wrapping a wing around her, and pulling her close with a cheerful "Hiya!"

Frequently, mice are killed with no chance of running or defending themselves. So, every mouse has hardwired in its brain a reflex when suddenly grabbed by something unexpected. A reflex to warn every mouse in hearing, and perhaps even frighten off the attacker. Courageous though she was, Gadget screamed her head off.

Foxglove, startled and terrified, screamed back without the slightest idea what she the racket was about. This continued for several earsplitting seconds. Once they had both emptied their lungs they stared at one another, wide eyed, hands over their mouths.

"Foxglove?"

"Gadget?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry."

"You scared me."

"I didn't mean to."

"Golly!"

"_You_ scared _ me. _"

"Sorry."

"My fault."

They spent a moment or two smiling weakly at one another, and hyperventilating.

The flow of oxygen restored, Foxglove spoke.

"I don't usually see you out here this late."

"I'm having trouble thinking, so I came out to sleep. Uh, I mean, reverse it."

"I have things on my mind too," Foxglove admitted. "I miss Dale."

Gadget hesitated a moment. "Oh?" she asked, cautiously.

"Yeah." Foxglove flopped onto her back, and stared up into the naked branches of the tree above her. "I miss the way his footstep sounds, the hollow thump of his ribcage when he trips over something and hits the ground, the hollow boom when he bangs his head. That gentle gurgle as food moves through his intestine. The delicate curve of his sinus. The way his lungs inflate." She sighed, her eyes glowing with love.

Gadget looked at Foxglove curiously. She had never heard descriptions of pulsing viscera in the tones usually reserved to describe a loved one's face, the softness of his pelt, or his scent. This was something she had never really considered before. Most animals as social and talkative as Foxglove wore clothes, but with Foxglove's sensors, she probably felt they were superfluous. And there was another thing ...

"You really love him, don't you?"

Foxglove looked at Gadget strangely, as though surprised to meet someone who didn't know. "Oh, yes."

"It's easy for you, isn't it?" Gadget asked.

Foxglove shrugged. "Maybe it's a bat thing."

"A bat thing?" Gadget asked politely. She was never fond of specist theories, but she liked Foxglove too much to protest.

"Sure. Mice doubt everything they see. Is that cheese bait for a trap? Is there a cat behind that chair? When you're a bat, you see what you like, and you go for it before it gets away."

"Have you ever been wrong?"

"Nope. Dale's my first time." Foxglove looked at Gadget curiously. "Why do you ask?" Gadget sat down. This wouldn't be easy. She had often wondered if Foxglove's sensitivity to metabolic signs made her a living lie detector - but, she reasoned, any sign would surely be masked by the panic Gadget had just gone through.

Foxglove watched as the mouse sat and stared off into the distance. Gadget's words came forced, as though she was weighing every one and only allowing them out reluctantly.

"I have," Gadget confided, "a friend. She's starting to ... feel things."

"What kind of things?"

Gadget's blood pressure rose slightly. Foxglove's night vision was in black and white, but she could see a blush. "Things ... things. You know."

Foxglove decided it would be best to lay the cards on the table, explicitly, with no holds barred; in the coarse, unambiguous language of the wild. "You mean snugglebunnies?" she asked.

"Yup," Gadget admitted reluctantly. She trembled slightly.

"You seem very nervous about these feelings."

"Uhm, a little."

"It's the same way Widget feels about Jürgen, and the way your mom felt about your dad."

"But they're married," Gadget explained.

Foxglove sighed. "Gadget, do you think these feelings started after they were married? Feelings aren't bad or dangerous."

"That's not what Dad said," Gadget muttered, embarrassed.

"How old were you when he died?"

"Uh, nineteen. Why?"

"Your father loved you and cared for you very much." There was a catch in her voice and Foxglove had to look away for a moment. "He died when he thought you were too young. He wanted to keep his little girl out of trouble. But you're not a little girl any more, Gadget." Foxglove sat next to her friend and put a wing, a living blanket, around her. "Has she ever felt this way before?"

"She's been wrong before," Gadget admitted sadly.

Foxglove nodded sympathetically. "It's a terrible thing to be wrong about. How wrong was she?"

Gadget bit her lower lip. "She hates him, now."

"Ah." Foxglove looked away. "And ... how snugglebunny did she get?"

"Not entirely," Gadget sniffed, slightly offended. "I'd say up to one of the 'g's but no further than that."

"That's good," Foxglove brightened. "At least she didn't go to the 'y' with someone she hates."

Gadget smiled. "Yes, there is that," she agreed. "But this is worse. She works with him, likes him, and even admires him!"

"Oh, no!" Foxglove gasped. "That's terrible!" Then she considered a moment. "Uh, Gadget, why is that bad?"

"Because if she starts to hate him, she'll lose something that's already very dear to her."

"Falling in love with a total stranger does simplify breaking up," Foxglove agreed complacently.

"Exactly," Gadget said with a nod. "Simple engineering. Design to minimize the effect of failure. Your heart breaks and may never heal, and your future happiness is in doubt, but you're not inconvenienced. I think I - I mean, my friend, of course - envies you."

"She wouldn't if she knew how afraid I was," Foxglove said softly. "I didn't know who Dale was at all. That's why I was so standoffish with him at first."

Gadget looked at her friend neutrally, but could detect no sign of sarcasm. "You called Dale 'cute stuff' and 'sweetie' within eight seconds of meeting him."

"Well," Foxglove drawled nonchalantly, "A girl has to know when to drop a hint or two."

"Uhm, right. What if you had made a mistake?"

"I think people make mistakes," Foxglove stated. "Your sister made mistakes, didn't she?"

Gadget looked at her neutrally. "One or two, I think," she admitted. She considered the actual number a family secret. "Are you saying it doesn't matter?"

"I'm saying you need to avoid mistakes. But it's another thing to be so afraid of them you don't make a non-mistake."

Gadget blinked, trying to follow Foxglove's argument. "There's good reason to be worried about mistakes," Gadget pointed out primly.

"Sure," Foxglove said with a serious nod. She started ticking them off on wing digits. "There's disease, external parasites, an unwanted p-word, potential loss of self esteem, the possibility of ruining a friendship ..."

"Golly," Gadget said, growing pale.

"Um, none of that was news to you, was it?" the bat asked hesitantly.

Gadget shook her head. "No. Dad and I talked about it."

"Your father and you?" Foxglove asked, a bit surprised.

Gadget blinked. "Mom was dead, her family doesn't talk to us, Dad was an only child, I didn't like his girlfriend, and my sister was plotting on killing us. Who else?"

Foxglove had never thought of that. "Gadget, didn't you have any women friends?" It certainly might shed some light on the mouse's tomboyish side.

"Sure." She brightened. "You'll get to meet Melody soon - the Staten City 25 is next month."

The mouse had talked about her childhood friend before. "I mean, women _older_ than you?"

"Not really. But Dad had a happy marriage, and I think he passed some of my questions on to Nibbles. Since then, I've talked with Widget and she thinks Dad did a good job."

Foxglove nodded. Widget was Gadget's twin, but she was old for her age. "Yes, he did. Sorry about the digression."

"What digression?"

Foxglove blinked. "We were talking about your friend, not you."

"Oh ... right," Gadget agreed quickly. "I think that's what frightens her. That she's having these feelings about ... this guy she works with. And that she's not sure if she's in love, or if she's just, uhm..."

"Feeling snugglebunny," Foxglove suggested, "and picking him because he's there."

"Like you said," Gadget said in a strangled voice. "And what if she asks him and he says yes and he's really only after One Thing and when he doesn't get it he starts making fun of her in front of his friends behind her back and maybe implies she did and she finds out and she straps him to a rocket and fires him three blocks without a parachute and hates him forever and ever so much she doesn't even visit him in the hospital after and she wonders that maybe there's something wrong with her because she didn't give him One Thing and that maybe it was all her fault and they'd still be in love if she did but at the same time she knows how stupid and wrong that is because even people who don't think giving that One Thing is bad will say you shouldn't do it if you're pressured or don't want to and she was and didn't?"

There was a pause while Foxglove's CPU caught up with her buffer. "That's a terrible story, Gadget. I wish I had been there."

"To catch him before he hit the ground?"

"To let him know I could catch him but wouldn't because it served him right, so there! That was no gentleman," Foxglove said, frostily. Her eyes blazed in the night with a ferocious flame. "Does she think the new guy might do that?"

There was a long pause as the blonde mouse considered. "No. Not a chance," Gadget said firmly.

"Then it won't happen."

"She's made mistakes before."

Foxglove paused for a moment. Gadget was repeating herself.

"Fire burns, Gadget. But it would be a terrible, cold world without it."

"It would, wouldn't it?" Gadget said slowly. "Do you think she should tell him?"

"She should tell him if she wants to tell him. And she has time to be sure."

Gadget grinned and hugged her friend. "Thanks, Foxy."

The beautiful mouse skipped back to the tree; Foxglove followed her with her eyes, smiling. After the door closed, Foxglove suddenly came to a realization. Her jaw dropped, and her eyes turned glassy with shock.

Gadget had _made up_ the story about having a friend. _Gadget_ was the one who thought she might be in love!

"Oh no," Foxglove cried out, in horror. "What have I done?"

Gadget would have heard if the scream had been a few octaves lower.

Foxglove's eyes slid shut and she swooned, falling off the branch and dropping safely into a providential pile of dried leaves which crunched softly.

December 14: Staten City Naval Academy, 0900 EST (1400 GMT).

The class snapped to attention. Almost literally.

Jürgen had been in their shoes and he knew where they were coming from. They were proud of themselves and they wanted the guest lecturer to darn well know it.

There were fifteen of them, freshly scrubbed and impeccably turned out. They were sharp and cocky and Jürgen had to fight himself to keep from thinking how impossibly young these children were. He had been one of them a long time ago. It was chilling, to let his eyes drift over their faces and see the echo of his own class in the Kriegsmausine. There were sixteen in Jürgen's graduating class. They had met the parents and grandparents of this class and four had survived. Warfare is a means by which the decent, sharp young men of one country kill the decent, sharp young men of another. It wasn't a new thought, but it had never hurt like this before.

Well, one difference, Jürgen had to admit. Three of these were women.

"At ease, sit down," Jürgen said softly. During the clatter, he poured himself a thimble of coffee. He hadn't slept much the night before. There was a desk, and a podium. The desk looked like the teacher's preferred seat, so he stood behind the podium.

"Anyone here know the sea?" he asked affably. "I know you've all studied it, and you've all served on a boat or two. But has anyone here worked on it before joining the Navy?"

The cadets glanced at one another for a moment, uncertainly. Finally, a mongoose raised his foreleg. "Yes, sir."

"I'm sorry. Your name?"

"O'Kane, sir. My folks are fishermen. I used to go out on the boat."

"See any monsters, O'Kane?"

O'Kane hesitated. "Seen some big animals, sir."

"No monsters, though." Jürgen sounded slightly disappointed.

"No sir."

"Look in a mirror recently?"

O'Kane smiled and there was some polite laughter.

"I'm not joking," Jürgen said, making his voice a little testy. He went on.

"The enemy will not know where you are. They will announce they've killed you when you're a thousand miles away. You will hunt, you will hit without warning, and you will leave them swimming." His voice was rising. "Your government will draw a line in the ocean and warn the world that anything behind it is your target. And the enemy will look for you, even if you're not there. Because when there is a hostile submarine in the water with a warshot loaded, there are monsters in the ocean." His voice was almost audible in the next room. He paused and sipped his coffee.

"In the last war, I sank twenty five tons of the ships built by the Allies," Jürgen stated calmly. "In the next week, I'll tell you how I did it, and what it was like."

There was dead silence as the class hunched forward. They had expected something boring. Not this.

_Albacore,_ 1630 GMT (1130 EST)

"When was this boat built, anyway?" Chip asked Mr. Calvert.

"She was completed about six months before we, uh, first met," Mr. Calvert replied. "That would make her almost two years old, now."

"And how long did it take to design and build?"

Mr. Calvert frowned and thought. "Jürgen and Widget started fine tuning the design about eighteen months before that."

"When Widget was nineteen," Chip murmured. He shook his head.

Mr. Calvert blinked. "Widget's twenty-two?"

"Sure," Chip said, pretending to be surprised. "Why?"

"Well - I thought she was older."

Chip nodded. A lot of people did. People were surprised when they found out how young Gadget was, but they didn't look dubious. There was a girlishness to Gadget; she seemed to light up the room. Widget almost never did. Sometimes, when she was with Gimcrack or Jürgen, Chip could see a flash of that light.

The small pilot boat visible in the periscope flashed its signal lamp: they were clear of Staten City's section of the Atlantic. Widget got off the mouse-sized bicycle seat - that had been just one of Jürgen's contributions to the design phase of _Albacore_ -- and hit the switch that sent it down.

"Mister Norton, synchronize email," she ordered.

The computer officer nodded. Eudora would automatically post and receive email every hour, but a link with the Iridium communications satellites could not be established while submerged at any reasonable depth. So, that command was generally the first to be issued before a dive. It was a subtle warning to the rest of the bridge to get on their toes.

"You've got mail!" the Pentium announced a moment later.

"Mister Misch, take us to two hundred fifty feet."

"Two hundred fifty feet aye. Ma'am, we have pressure in the boat."

"Very well," Widget responded.

Chip tried not to look anxious as the Klaxon sounded twice. "Dive, dive, dive." It was exactly like a war movie, which sounded like something Dale would think.

"Two hundred fifty feet is about as deep as a scuba diver can go with air," Mr. Calvert told him sotto voce. "Of course, we can go a lot ... deeper."

Chip grinned at Mr. Calvert. The squirrel was obviously trying to rattle him. He was succeeding, but Chip couldn't let him realize that. "I've always wondered about leaks in a submarine," he said in a conversational tone.

"Leaks?" Mr. Calvert asked, a bit surprised.

Chip nodded innocently. "Diesel effect," he explained. "Say you're in a compartment at fifty atmospheres when there's a leak. The compartment holds air, so you won't drown right away. But the air's being compressed, so it gets hotter and hotter. Do you drown, or get burned to death when everything flammable explodes in the oxygen-rich compressed air?"

Mr. Calvert smiled back reluctantly. "It depends on how deep you are, of course."

"I've pulled animals out of fires," Chip said casually, making conversation. "If your fur ignites, you'll never be the same again. I hope I drown."

Widget was trying to look calm. It was, strangely enough, the first time she had ordered _Albacore_ down. Usually, Jürgen or the watch officer did it. She was pleased she hadn't goofed it up - she missed Jürgen already, and it made him feel closer.

"Begging your pardon, ma'am," Barra came up. "Last night one of the crew told me a passenger ship was expected at Staten City tonight."

Widget looked over and grinned, crookedly. "Fancy an attack drill?"

"If it pleases you, ma'am."

Widget walked over to the computer station. The officer moved aside to let her drive. "Mr. Calvert, a word with you?" she asked without turning around, interrupting the conversation Chip and he were having. Gratefully, since Chip had little trouble topping his stories, the young officer came over to the boat's designer.

A Human company makes a 640x480 color VGA computer screen a bit over an inch on a side for use in computerized optics. _Albacore_ made extensive use of such displays. Staten City's web page had been downloaded and cached before they had gone under, and finding the passenger ship was simple enough.

"The Canard White Star Lines passenger ship _Lucy Tania, _" Widget read out loud. Using two fingers as map dividers, she extrapolated their course.

"Looks do-able, ma'am," Mr. Calvert said cautiously.

"Looks like we're almost on a collision course already," Widget corrected with a smile. She tapped a few buttons on the panel. The computer calculated an intercept course which would take _Albacore_ to the point about thirty minutes before the passenger ship.

"Mrs. Shapiro, please steer zero-nine-seven at twenty knots."

"Zero nine seven at twenty, aye."

"Very well. Chief Barra, we will be commencing an attack drill around seventeen-thirty hours, Zulu."

He nodded. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Do attack drills usually require finding a passenger liner?" Chip asked politely.

Widget nodded. "A good attack drill needs a real target. We usually pick a rodent ship instead of a human ship because it can be dangerous to get so close to something that big. We prefer to use a passenger ship because they're usually faster than freighters."

Chip looked at the watch hanging on the wall. They had two and a half hours; he thought it would be fun to see the drill on the bridge. He was afraid of getting bored on the trip to Atlantis; idly, he wondered what Gadget was up to at that moment.

Central Park, 1300 EST (1800 GMT)

Monty reached up and grabbed Gadget by the first handle he could reach - her hair - and pulled her down behind the sandbags. An instant later, a sheet of flame rolled overhead.

Gadget waited for the dull roar of the explosion to subside. "You know," she said out loud, "I can't help but suspect I'm on the wrong track with the Ranger Rocket."

"That could be," Monterey agreed politely.

"I just know the engine would work if it didn't keep melting and exploding," she fretted. "If only we could do it the same way von Braun did."

_Albacore,_ 1910 GMT (1410 EST)

"That clock's broken," Dale observed.

Chip looked at the four LCD displays on the wall. "Which one?" he asked. "Only one's a clock. The others show our heading, depth, and speed."

"The clock says 'Time' under it. It says it's after nineteen hundred."

"That's a twenty-four hour clock. You subtract twelve. It's a bit after seven PM."

"Wowie," Dale blinked. "Did I ever oversleep."

"You usually do," Chip agreed. Then he realized Dale's mistake. "Dale, the boat's on GMT. You didn't sleep as late as it looks."

"Oh. What's GMT?"

"Greenwich Mean Time."

Dale looked nervously about the mess room. He leaned closer to Chip. "But Widget's being nice to us."

Chip blinked. "It's not that kind of mean. It's an average."

"Mean means average?"

"I ... think so."

"But isn't Greenwich really close to New York?" Dale asked.

Chip blinked again. "That's Greenwich, Connecticut. GMT is the time in Greenwich, England."

"So what time is it really?"

"About two in the afternoon."

"But I thought England was six hours ahead of us."

"Only when we're on daylight savings time and you have to subtract another hour."

Dale grinned. "Now I know you're putting me on."

Chip sighed. "You're right, Dale. You just overslept."

There was a tone from the annunciator. "Attention all hands, attention," came Widget's voice. "We are executing a no-launch attack drill and going to condition yellow. This is a drill."

Two crew across the table stood up, tossed the remnants of their meals into the garbage, and left the room. A third remained seated. The deck tilted as _Albacore_ slid closer to the surface.

Chip entered the bridge just as Mr. Misch called out, "Periscope depth."

"Up scope," Widget replied.

She did a quick check of the horizon. Nothing was visible, which didn't surprise her. She tiled the mirror of the periscope and checked for aircraft. Surprisingly, she saw one, and zoomed in.

"There's a Navy Kestrel up there," she said. "About half a mile away, running parallel to us."

"Should we abort the drill?" asked Mr. Calvert. "We don't want them thinking we're really launching an attack. Especially if there's other Navy ships in the area."

Widget hesitated. She had never run an attack before, so the crew would see this drill as a test of her as a commander. "Miss Freiheit, we'll break radio silence. Give me the Navy hailing channel." She walked across the bridge and leaned towards the pinhole mike. "Navy aircraft, Navy aircraft, this is SRV _Albacore. _"

"SRV _Albacore,_ go ahead. Hey, where are you guys?"

"We're the periscope over your left wing. Can you do us a favor?"

"Sure thing."

"We're doing an attack drill on the _Lucy Tania. _ We'd appreciate it if you could let your friends know so we don't eat a Hotel by mistake."

"Hotel?" Chip asked.

"Acoustic homing torpedo," Mr. Calvert explained.

"No problem, _Albacore. _ We're alone out here. You want me to vector you towards the target?"

"Thanks, but no. That's part of the drill."

"Roger, _Albacore. _ Good hunting. Over."

"Thanks, Kestrel. Over and out."

In the cockpit of the Kestrel, the pilot leaned over to his copilot so he could talk without shouting.

"You know who that was, Chauncey?"

"No idea, Edgar."

"That was Widget Hackwrench."

"The Rescue Ranger?" Chauncey asked, impressed.

"No, her sister. The engineer who's building our navy."

"Cool! But wasn't she a criminal maniac?"

"That too."

"Where's the thermocline?" Widget asked.

The diving officer looked at a display. "One hundred thirty feet."

"Mr. Misch, take us to one hundred fifteen feet. Rig for silent running."

A panel on the wall lit up with a single word: SILENT, in red. The silent running signal didn't use an audible alarm.

"Salt water forms layers with different temperatures," Mr. Calvert explained to Chip in a whisper. "The boundary between two layers is called the thermocline. It's hard for sound to cross over a thermocline. By sitting above it, we can hear what's happening on the surface, but we can dive below it quickly if we need to hide."

"Thanks," Chip whispered back. He listened carefully. "Hey, did the Nimnul reactor just shut down?"

"You have good ears. Yes, to run silent we use the radiothermal generator. It's quiet, but it can only give us five knots."

"Depth one fifteen," the diving officer announced.

"Mrs. Shapiro, give me five degrees starboard rudder. Mr. Fenton, please give me a passive scan of the surface at twelve o'clock." Widget inhaled. "Mr. Calvert, load a Fox in tube one."

Mrs. Shapiro turned the steering yoke to the right, sending the submarine into a wide, slow circle. Mr. Fenton's rig locked in a forward position, looking slightly upwards. As the submarine turned, he would scan the entire surface around them.

Mr. Calvert touched and annunciator button. "Starboard torpedo room, this is a drill. Load a Fox in Tube #2, confirm contact, and unload."

"Acknowledge drill. Fox in Tube #2 and unload, sir," came the voice of von Kugleblitz.

"Very well."

"Didn't she say to load Tube #1?" Chip asked.

Mr. Calvert nodded. "Yes. But by loading Tube #2 instead, there's no way we can launch accidentally."

Chip didn't know enough about submarines to be surprised when von Kugleblitz called back less than one minute later. Loading a torpedo normally took quite a bit longer. "Sir, Tube #2 is loaded."

Mr. Calvert turned a dial counterclockwise. "Read forward gyro angle."

"Reading negative one three, sir."

"Very good. Unload Tube #2." Mr. Calvert raised his voice. "Ma'am, Tube #1 is loaded and the fish is responding."

"Very well," Widget replied.

"We tell the torpedoes how to turn once they leave the tubes from up here," Mr. Calvert explained, patting the Torpedo Data Computer. "We just loaded a torpedo, made sure it could hear us, and removed it so it won't be launched accidentally."

Chip nodded.

In a few minutes, Mr. Fenton started to rock back and forth in his chair, and then slowly turned to the left. "Surface contact bearing three four eight."

"Steer heading minus twelve," Widget immediately said. "Periscope depth." She walked over to the annunciator. "Attention all crew, attention, this is a drill. Red alert. This is a drill."

Mr. Misch worked the last few inches up carefully. "Up periscope, ma'am?"

"Please."

The tube shot upwards out of the floor to the ceiling. Widget sat and turned it to face the bow.

She could see the passenger liner heading towards them, or maybe a bit to the left. She gave steering orders to put _Albacore_ directly in its path, and then turned the bow towards the ship.

"Target acquired. I'm tracking. Stand by for crash dive."

Jürgen usually tracked target speed and heading by eye. Widget was substantially less practiced and more trusting of technology, so she used the electro-optical datascope she had bought from Edmund Scientific instead. While she panned slowly to keep the target in the crosshairs as steadily as possible (with the datascope automatically compensating for the rocking of the boat), the computer used the range and target bearing data to derive target speed and heading, and sent this to Mr. Calvert's TDC.

"Solution sixty," Mr. Calvert said. "Forward gyro angle five."

"Set depth to ten inches. Mrs. Shapiro, come to heading plus five degrees. We'll launch at range one-fifty yards," Widget said. That was a bit long, but it would make it almost impossible for anyone aboard the liner to see the periscope and panic. "Starboard torpedo room. Connect Tube #1. Pressurize and open bow cap."

"Solution?" Chip asked.

Mr. Calvert patted the TDC for Chip's benefit. "When we launch a torpedo, it turns once and runs straight. The amount it turns is the gyro angle. You want that to be as small as possible, so Widget's turning the boat. You don't 'aim' a torpedo. You 'find a solution.' This baby predicts where the target should be and keeps track of how accurate its projection is. As the number gets closer to one hundred, the better our chances of hitting."

The range was 160 yards. "Solution?" Widget asked.

"Solution nine-three."

Widget watched the range indicator drop closer to one fifty. Oddly enough, the only thing she could think of was that she had to be very careful to say "fire." During the drills hunting the _Mahan,_ Jürgen had once accidentally yelled out the German command to 'loose' a torpedo instead of the English command to 'fire' it. It had been a little embarrassing. Widget didn't want to make the same mistake.

One five zero.

"_Los! _" Widget snapped.

"Tube #1, fire!" Mr. Calvert acknowledged, hitting the safety off at the same time. In the starboard torpedo room, von Kugleblitz pulled a lever that opened the outer door. The outer door popped open, releasing the tube's contents into the water.

"Emergency deep, flank!" Widget ordered. "One forty feet, steer heading plus ninety."

The Nimnul generator came back on line, the eighteen-inch wide dryer spinning, using the Nimnul effect which the professor had used to create artificial lightning bolts by rubbing cats to send a surge of power through the PumpJet. The boat jerked violently forwards and nosed sharply down, accelerating while turning to the right. Chip almost fell over, saving himself by grabbing a strap.

"Torpedo running, ma'am!" Mr. Fenton yelled from the ceiling, his voice cracking.

Chip looked up sharply, his Trouble Meter pegged. He looked back at the Torpedo Data Computer. There was a counter going down from six seconds. A three letter acronym was printed under it: TTT. In a flash, Chip guessed what it meant: Time To Target.

Widget clouded. She had goofed - she should have waited for Mr. Fenton's confirmation before ordering the escape maneuver. If there had been a 'malfunction,' they could have fired a second tube. "Thank you, Mister Fenton," she said in a resigned voice.

"No, ma'am!" Mr. Fenton shrilled. He forced himself to relax. "Ma'am, there really is a torpedo in the water!"

Chip looked over at Widget, horrified. Widget paused and, looked up at Fenton with a frown.

"What - ?" she began.

Off in the distance, there was a soft, muffled explosion.

"Level the boat. Keep us at this depth." Widget waited a moment. They were still plunging. She licked her lips and drew in a breath. "MISTER MISCH!"

The shout startled the bridge crew back into action. "Uh - yes ma'am! Fixing depth at one zero two."

"Silent running."

"Silent running aye." The light flashed back on, and the soft thumping of the Nimnul generator died down.

In engineering, Shiro looked at the flashing red light with annoyance. *Silent, flank, silent -- make up your mind.*

"Mrs. Shapiro, give me five degrees port rudder. Mr. Fenton, lock in and sweep twelve o'clock. I want to know if there's a third boat in the water."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mister Calvert, get Chief Barra and go to the starboard torpedo room. Chief Barra is to watch von Kugleblitz while you give me a count of the weapons in that room checked against our inventory. Chip, would you kindly do me the favor of accompanying Mister Calvert?"

"Of course, Widget." He gave her a smile and was relieved to see her grin back. Either _Albacore_ had fired the torpedo or another ship had; she was chasing both possibilities at once. Chip was favorably impressed.

As he and Mr. Calvert left the bridge, he could hear Widget saying, "Go slowly to periscope depth. We'll do a visual sweep once we're up there. Port torpedo room, load a Fox in tubes five and six, and a Tango in tube seven. Bow torpedo room..."

Von Kugleblitz was frightened and nervous. This counted in his favor as far as Chip was concerned. He may have screwed up, but Chip doubted he had actually been carrying out a plan. Still, he might be a good actor, so Chip filed this impression away as irrelevant for the time being.

"Sir," von Kugleblitz stated, "There was not a torpedo in the tubes."

Mr. Calvert nodded sympathetically. "I know. Orders." For the first time, Chip realized how much bad stuff could simply be blamed on higher-ups, and wondered how many bad feelings that deflected.

_Albacore's_ torpedo room design was unique. Unlike Human submarines, she stowed torpedoes in two end-to-end rotary magazines and used a fully mechanical loading system which allowed _Albacore_ to operate with a crew which was not only smaller, but less numerous.

Chip didn't know what a "rotary magazine" was, but it wasn't hard to figure out how it worked. He saw two drums that held torpedoes, exactly like bullets in a revolver, except each torpedo was a bit over a foot long and three quarters of an inch wide. Like most people, he was surprised to see how big a torpedo was.

The drums were end to end, and the one in front was positioned behind the three torpedo tubes. Torpedoes would be pushed from the rear magazine into an empty chamber in the front magazine, and from the front magazine into the tubes. This would allow them to quickly load a specific torpedo. One of the chambers had a hatch along the side, which he guessed would allow a torpedo to be rolled into a waiting sling. There were two types visible: one with a warhead made of a .50 caliber machine gun bullet for penetrating armor; the other with a twelve-gauge shotgun shell for shattering wooden boats. Seven Foxes and four Tangos.

Eleven torpedoes in twelve chambers.

"Looks okay," Mister Calvert said.

"One of the chambers is empty," Chip pointed out.

"We always sail that way. Otherwise, it's too hard to move them around for maintenance." Mr. Calvert opened the hatch on the empty chamber. "See, we cycle the torpedo into here, and roll it onto this sling so we can test it."

"Makes sense," Chip agreed with a relieved nod. After all, he didn't know how many torpedoes they started with.

"You see eleven torpedoes?" Mr. Calvert asked, pro forma.

Chip hesitated. "No. I see eleven nose caps and tail sections. One of these could be disguised." There was no way a foot-long torpedo could be snuck aboard and into the torpedo room, but it might be possible to make a shell to fool casual inspection.

Mr. Calvert turned just a bit frosty. "That would take a deliberate conspiracy."

"Yes," Chip agreed amiably.

Mr. Calvert hesitated a moment. "We'll have the other four torpedo mechanics perform maintenance on all the torpedoes in this room. I'll supervise them with Chief Barra. Will that satisfy you?"

"And in addition, myself." Chip couldn't tell the insides of a torpedo from the insides of a sewing machine, but he could at least confirm there _was_ an inside.

"We'll discuss that with the designer," Mr. Calvert said. Understandably, he was a little angry and upset at Chip's insinuations. "It'll take a while to set up and do. For now, I think the designer wants a quick count."

"I agree," Chip nodded. It didn't feel good to talk that way to the friendly and helpful Mr. Calvert, and the squirrel's silence on the ways back to the bridge was uncomfortable.

Widget was at the periscope and slowly rotating, so they had to be close to the surface. "There is radio traffic between the _Lucy Tania_ and shore," said Miss Freiheit, a ferret with a Human-sized earplug covering one ear. She hesitated. "Ma'am, they are signaling 'SSS, SOS.'"

That hit Widget. She looked away from the periscope. "Are you sure? SSS?"

"They are repeating, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am."

Widget looked over at Chip and Mr. Calvert. "What did you find?"

Mr. Calvert spoke first. "Ma'am, I counted eleven torpedoes. Chip wants to be present during a breakdown of all eleven to confirm they are all torpedoes." Mr. Calvert's voice added a sentence. _He thinks we're trying to fool him._

Widget hesitated. "Chip is a thorough and cautious investigator. When he is satisfied, I will be." _And we will cooperate fully._ It was a delicate way of making Chip's status clear in front of the entire bridge crew. Chip heaved an internal sigh of relief.

Mr. Calvert went to attention. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed. _It is clear my opinions disagreed with yours. For this, I am humbly sorry._

"How is the passenger ship?" Chip asked, a bit frightened.

"She is dead in the water and has a five degree list to port," Widget replied. "No visible damage or fire. Lifeboats are not being loaded."

"Could it be a torpedo hit?" Chip asked.

Widget hesitated. "Yes, I believe it could. I'll be able to tell you for sure in a few minutes."

"You're not planning on going over there, are you?" Mr. Calvert asked incredulously.

Widget blinked. "Mister Calvert, there is a passenger liner within reach transmitting an SOS. We don't have much choice."

"Ma'am, let me get some volunteers."

"No. They also signaled SSS - 'I have been attacked by a hostile submarine.' We're vulnerable just sitting like this. There is no other surface ship. You will take this boat deep and look for the other sub. Pick me up in about an hour."

It occurred to Chip that her reception might be less than friendly. Regardless of the facts in the matter, the passenger liner thought they had been attacked by a submarine. "May I come with you, ma'am?" Chip asked.

She heaved a sigh of relief. "I'll be glad of your company."

Dale tightened the life jacket Chip was wearing.

"Take care," he said, patting his friend on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm no daredevil," Chip grinned back.

"Sure you aren't."

"We will break the surface, launch a life boat, and dive under you," Mr. Calvert said. "You should have no problem reaching the boat and paddling over to the _Lucy Tania. _"

"I wish you wouldn't say 'no problem,'" Chip said, one eyelid twitching.

Dale held Gimcrack up so his mother could pet his ears. "I'll probably be back in an hour," she said. "Don't expect too much in the way of intellectual stimulation."

"Of course I won't," Dale assured her.

Gimcrack and Widget looked at one another for a moment. She wondered if she should explain to Dale, but she realized it would be too cruel.

The water was cold, but they barely got their feet wet before they got into the lifeboat. Getting over to the liner was easier than Chip had hoped. The _Lucy Tania_ was not only tilted sideways, but forward as well; as he steered the little boat he could see Widget looking at the boat with a frown, muttering softly to herself.

"What will you do if it was hit by one of your torpedoes?" Chip shouted over the wave noise.

"Get very embarrassed and figure out a way to keep it from happening again," Widget shouted back. She didn't seem very concerned over it, Chip noticed. She wouldn't need to invent some weird plot to intentionally torpedo a ship; as commander of _Albacore_ she could just do it, or try to pass it off as an accident or malfunction. Besides, her husband was off the boat and he couldn't imagine her putting him at any risk.

There was an aircraft, a Staten City Navy Kestrel tiltrotor, circling the stricken liner in a wide orbit, and then heading for shore. Chip saw Widget stare at it, and narrow her eyes grimly.

"Can those carry torpedoes?"

"Oh, yes," Widget said dryly. "One. It's not armed now."

"Did you see if it was carrying one when you saw it through the periscope?"

Widget considered. "No," she finally admitted. "I couldn't swear to that."

"Could they launch a torpedo about the same time you gave the order to fire?"

"Passive ducking sonar could pick up a mechanical transient."

"Pardon?"

"Sorry. They could lower a microphone into the water and hear the sound made when our torpedo door opened."

The crew tossed a rope ladder over the side; Chip secured the lifeboat while Widget went up the ladder. Being a chipmunk with both arms, he was able to catch up to her easily.

She scrambled up on deck, Chip giving her a slight boost. When she got to her feet, she nodded to the captain, who looked at her, stunned and silent.

"Captain," she said formally. "I'm from the Submersible Research Vessel _Albacore._ We received your SOS - "

"_You again! _" thundered Captain Badger in a low, growling voice, more astonished than angry.

"Oh, hi," Widget drawled, trying to recover from the surprise. She rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed.

"Young woman, this makes twice you've sunk my ship. I must say I consider your actions ... " Captain Badger looked around and saw passengers of the fairer sex were present, but decided to go on anyway -- "unladylike."

The crew gasped at this entirely uncharacteristic abusive outburst from their beloved skipper.

Badger continued in a lighter tone, sarcastically. "Is there something I have done to offend you? Or is it just that you have a disagreement with *another* person in your extremely odd family?"

"It's funny you should mention that," Widget said with a frown. She jerked, changing the subject. "Anyway, this ship isn't sunk yet. And that's why I'm here."

Chip slapped his forehead as the crew crowding around them got just a little bit uglier. "Uhm, Widget," he said calmly, "That was kind of a weird, ambiguous thing to say." There were also passengers on deck, in life jackets. Strangely, all the adults were wearing dresses.

"Point taken," Widget agreed. "Look, I wouldn't board a ship I was trying to sink, right? I'd have to be some sort of lunatic."

This also failed to assuage the people assembled on deck.

"You're Chip, of the Rescue Rangers." Captain Badger said suddenly.

"That's right," Chip agreed.

"What are you doing with this ... person?" Badger asked.

"Sir, did you actually see _Albacore_ fire a torpedo at you?"

"No," Badger admitted. "But the Navy plane up there said the torpedo was launched from a submarine."

This was interesting. Chip inhaled. "Captain, I'm not certain what happened here. But frankly, I was on the _Albacore's_ bridge and my best guess at the moment is that _Lucy Tania_ was torpedoed by another vessel. _Albacore_ just happened to be in the area and heard your SOS." Chip knew he was lying by omission; he was by no means convinced there hadn't been an accident. Still, he was on a sinking ship and keeping her afloat seemed more important at the moment than determining blame.

Captain Badger nodded slowly. "Very well," he said reluctantly. "Ms. Hackwrench, we will be very grateful for any help you can give us."

"You're welcome." The touchy-feelie personal stuff over, Widget retreated with visible relief into what she did best. She started walking slowly to the bow, followed by Captain Badger and Chip. She pulled off her life jacket and dropped it to the deck.

"My guess is you were hit in the bow by a torpedo which sent a solid projectile through the ship," she said. "It exited after going through your Nimnul generator. Sea water came in through the exit hole, shutting the generator down. You've got the exit hole plugged, but you can't get to the entry damage. Compartmentalization is compromised and you've lost power to the pumps."

Captain Badger nodded, without looking surprised or impressed. "Exactly."

"Were there any casualties?" Chip asked.

"A few. One serious. The Navy Kestrel flew him back to Staten City. The ship's doctor tells me the others are not in danger."

"Then we don't need to take them to _Albacore, _" Widget said. "Good." The white mouse came to a stop at the extreme bow of the ship. "I'll need mattresses."

Captain Badger turned around. "Get some mattresses," he ordered the crew behind him.

"Chip, toss them over to me one at a time, as I signal for them."

"Right. You're going to plug the hole by working with the water flow?"

"Exactly." She pulled her diving mask down over her eyes and bit down on the mouthpiece leading to the tank on her back under the cape. Tugging on swim fins, she climbed over the rail and dropped eighteen inches into the water.

"Do you trust that one?" Captain Badger asked Chip.

Chip hesitated, and decided he couldn't lie to him. "Right now, I trust myself and my partner on the _Albacore. _"

The water was cold, savagely cold, even in the wetsuit she wore. It was December, she was swimming in brine, and mice didn't have the advantage of bulk that Humans did. She didn't let herself hesitate before diving under. If she thought about how cold it was going to feel once her head was under, she might not have done it.

The hole was about half an inch in diameter, and Widget was not cheered to notice it was almost exactly ten inches below the waterline. The ship's aluminium construction had produced a jagged crown inside the vessel. To fix the hole from aboard it would be necessary to cut the wreckage away before welding a patch on. Of course, the ship was compartmentalized, but unlike explosive Human torpedoes, this one had blown a hole entirely through the length of the ship and out the other side.

She hated to admit it, but _Lucy Tania_ had been hit by a Fox. Just like the ones used on _Albacore_ and that she supplied to the Staten City Navy.

The hole had a bit of suction, so she was careful to avoid it. She swam back up to the surface and gestured for a mattress.

Fighting the mattress down against its own buoyancy was harder than she had thought it would be, but when she held it against the damage the water pressure sucked it in and held it firmly. She kicked it once or twice to jam it tighter, and using a knife cut strips off the edges of the mattress to seal the gaps.

After a few minutes of this, her right paw was too stiff for her fingers to bend. That was an early indication of frostbite; her body was maintaining her core temperature by stopping the blood flow to her extremities. At this moment, her air cut out; she only carried a few minutes' worth. After stuffing a few more scraps as caulk, she swam to the surface.

Chip had gone back to _Albacore's_ lifeboat, and brought it around. She extended her left arm and he pulled her in, passing her a towel wordlessly. After drying her face, she started trembling uncontrollably. He stepped away from the boat's tiller and put his coat over her shoulders, although he had to take his life jacket off to do it.

"Did you stop the leak?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to cross the Atlantic with it, but it should buy them the time they need."

"Good." Widget didn't look good. Chip had no idea if that was normal after working in cold water or not. "Can you hold onto my back when I go up the ladder?"

"I think so. Thanks." She looked up gratefully for a moment, and sighed. She wondered what was happening to her ship, and to the son she had left on it. She had to fight to keep her mind on the stricken passenger liner.

The engine room was hip deep in sea water. The _Lucy Tania_ was pitched bow down, so most of the water they had taken on was draining forward. Chip was watching Widget, worried; Gadget had once confided she was afraid her sister had never really gotten her health back after Gimcrack's birth. She seemed fine, but she had looked so exhausted when they had been alone.

The exit damage was a three-inch long gash, about six inches over their heads, now sealed with a patch that was barely trickling water. "We finished this while you were plugging the bow," Mr. Rat explained. "Working inside the ship, we had to patch against the water flow, but the pressure's not that great. It'll hold."

"Absolutely," Widget agreed. The Nimnul Generator was a large cylinder on its side, which filled most of the room. Inside was a rotating cylinder with strips of flannel. By spinning the cylinder at high speed, static electricity was generated. The torpedo had blown through it. "The containment cylinder was breached?"

"And contaminated with sea water," Mr. Rat agreed unhappily. "All the flannel's wet."

"It won't work unless the air is dry in there," Widget explained to Chip. She shook her head. "The ship's dead in the water. You can't fix that easily."

"So you've got no power," Chip said. "Can you run a cable from _Albacore? _"

"Normally, yes," she agreed. "But I'm not going to set up _Albacore_ as a target."

"So you won't give us a tow?" Mr. Rat asked.

"There are rescue ships on the way. _Albacore_ will escort you, but her safety's a priority." She changed the subject. "We need to get a better seal on the hole in the bow."

"How can we fix it without breaking the seal you put on?"

Widget grinned. "Fix the hole in the compartment instead of fixing the breach in the hull. You'll flood the forecastle, but that's survivable."

"Very good," Mr. Rat said with admiration. "Of course, it's underwater."

"Not if you pump water manually from the bow into the stern. Get the bow to tilt up." She gestured around, taking in the engine compartment. "It's not like this mess is going to get fixed at sea anyway."

Mr. Rat had been warned not to trust her by Captain Badger. Mr. Rat couldn't see why she'd hit them with a torpedo and then do everything required by the customs of the sea. He'd have to discuss this with Captain Badger. He was beginning to suspect there was another sub in the water.

But then, what was it up to?

Wolfe's Pond Park Naval Base, Staten City, 1450 EST (1950 GMT)

Lieutenant Chauncey was standing at attention. He had never met his own Commander-in-Chief, had never imagined meeting him in a hangar, and had certainly never imagined meeting him in flight gear. He deeply regretted the lewd picture of his girlfriend on his helmet. He had his hand covering her torso, but that made it look like she wasn't wearing the bikini. All in all, he was not a comfortable young officer.

"Once more," Jerome Catbane said quietly.

Chauncey licked his lips. "Sir, we were on a training patrol over the Atlantic when we were diverted to escort the _Lucy Tania._ On the way, the _Albacore_ contacted us, stating they were running exercises and did not want to be mistaken for a hostile submarine."

"Did you tell _Albacore_ you were alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"I see. Then?"

"Sir, we saw _Albacore_ at periscope depth. She launched a torpedo at _Lucy Tania._ We saw the torpedo hit. _Lucy Tania_ signaled an SOS and that she had been attacked by a submarine."

"SSS?" Catbane asked.

Lieutenant Chauncey was startled. He hadn't expected the Mayor to know signals. "Yes, sir."

"I remember," Catbane said with a faint smile and a nod. "Go on."

"We landed on _Albacore_ to take a casualty to shore. Since our aircraft was unarmed, it seemed more important to get him to help." His voice was a bit defensive, as though he was afraid he had made a mistake.

"Yes." Catbane nodded. Peacetime navy. In a war, they would have maintained a patrol until relieved. The mole in the hospital would be dead, but that would be acceptable.

"The radio stations say _Albacore_ did not reply to the SOS," Caitlin interjected.

"Are there any members of _Albacore's_ crew in Staten City?"

"It's possible. I'm not sure."

Catbane nodded. He had come to a decision.

"Issue an order to police and armed forces that any member of _Albacore's_ crew found is to be detained. The _Albacore_ is to be located and escorted to Staten City."

Caitlin stared at him for a long moment. "Are they authorized to fire?" she asked, slowly.

"If _Albacore_ fires first. Only in self-defense, or in defense of a civilian vessel."

"Jerome, think about what you're doing," she whispered. "Your grand daughter--"

"I know," he cut her off. "I can't let that matter." He hesitated. "Caitlin, I'm sure there's some sort of logical explanation. She'll see reason; she'll back down when she's cornered."

Caitlin couldn't argue with him in public. That was the only thing keeping her sigh inaudible.

The Smell of Cheddar (a mouse restaurant, just south of Central Park). 1500 EST (2000 GMT)

"And so," Monty finished with a flourish, "With two hammer like blows, I shoved that cheese down past Rat Capone's evil-smelling teeth and popped him into next week."

"Wow," sighed Rhoda, her liquid eyes glittering in the candle light of the bistro. She leaned towards him and touched his brawny forearm. "Do you know any other stories?" she breathed.

"Well," Monterey said with a modest, self-deprecating laugh, "I really don't like to boast in front of a room full of people."

"Then perhaps," she suggested lightly, moving her hip against his as she slid closer to him on the bench, "we could go somewhere there isn't a crowd?"

Monty's face froze. Although Rhoda (understandably) had most of his attention, he couldn't help but notice the LED headline ticker behind her when it spelled out:

ROGUE SUBMARINE IN SHOWDOWN WITH STATEN CITY NAVY

He looked back at Rhoda, who moistened her lip with the tip of her tongue.

*Maybe it's some other submarine,* he thought desperately.

Of all the mistresses a mouse can indulge, surely the cruelest and most unrelenting is a strict sense of loyalty and duty.

"Rhoda," he said gently, putting massive hands on her shoulders, "I'm very, very, sorry, an' I would dearly love to tell you another story (somewhere private), but I kinda think me best mate's little girl is gonna make the ocean foam pink with blood 'less I help stop 'er."

"Oh," she said, disappointed.

"I'll tell ya all about it when I'm back," he promised.

She smiled, and put her arms around him. "I'd like that, Dwight."

"Monty," he corrected.

"Whatever." She gave him a long, lingering kiss.

What was left working in Monterey's brain was enough to get him safely back to the Ranger Tree while his cerebellum rebooted, synapse by synapse.

Gadget and Zipper sat on the couch in the TV room, the mouse applying the contents of an inch-long metal envelope of neomycin, polymyxin B sulfates and bacitracin zinc to her singed tail and wincing. Her tail and the region to which it was attached had spent a brief period in the fireball produced when the flaming wreckage of the Ranger Rocket (Mark IV) plowed into the ground in a cloud of JP1. Not for the first time, she was spared great discomfort and potential embarrassment by her Nomex coveralls.

Stan Blather was describing a series of mysterious explosions in Central Park, and Gadget was beginning to wonder if maybe the Rescue Rangers should investigate, when Foxglove threw herself next to Gadget and changed channels without a word.

Gadget blinked, too surprised to react. Despite the fact Foxy's wings were folded belligerently and an angry expression was on her face, Gadget couldn't imagine her bat friend being intentionally rude. Zipper looked over, annoyed. Perhaps being related to Foxglove's menu made him a bit more willing to believe she could be mean.

"What's on, Foxglove?" Gadget asked conversationally.

"Not what I'd really like to see. I'd really like to see a film where a lonely, plain girl finally falls for a guy who likes her back when this beautiful, brilliant girl who could have _anyone_ she wanted steals him away and the plain girl swoops down on her and chews her right up and spits her out!" She looked at Gadget sideways, wondering if she had been too subtle.

She had. Gadget pursed her lips. "Well, I don't know if they made a film like that. Humans don't usually swoop down on one another and chew one another up, except on the Internet."

Zipper did a double take, understanding immediately.

"It's a shame," Foxglove said. "Some of these movies have little morals to them, you know."

Zipper began.

Just then, the door swung open. One look at Monty and the conversation completely left everyone's mind.

Staten City Navy Salvage Vessel _Virgil Tracy, _ 1550 EST (2050 GMT)

Captain Murry looked at Chip, exasperated and clearly reaching the end of his rope. "For the last time, since you are not a member of _Albacore's_ crew, this doesn't concern you."

Widget had her arms folded and was drumming her right fingers on her left biceps. Two burly rats, one male and one female, stood politely, but insistently, on either side. Thank goodness, she had taken Chip's advice to shut up - otherwise, he had very little doubt she would be trussed hand and foot and muzzled by now.

"I have a very bad habit of involving myself in things that don't concern me," Chip said stubbornly. "And I am telling you that you're endangering yourself and that passenger liner."

The _Virgil Tracy_ had been nearby, towing a target hulk, when _Lucy Tania_ broadcast her SSS SOS. The order to detain members of _Albacore's_ crew had come on the way. Captain Murry considered himself the luckiest skipper in the fleet when the queen bee of that venomous hive had fallen right into his lap. He was beginning to change his mind. "Is that a threat, Chip?" Captain Murry asked blandly.

"I'm letting you know you are threatened. This ship isn't armed?"

"No," Murry said with a shake of his head. The Red Cross painted on her sides should have made that obvious.

"There is a very nice young man in the water who is," Chip said bluntly.

"I don't have time for this." Murry turned around. "Sparks, transmit that we have secured Widget Hackwrench as per orders."

"Sir," the radioman nodded.

That settled, Murry turned his attention to other business. "Now let's get a line over to the -"

Captain Murry stopped short. There was a bright light flashing in the water. He couldn't see the periscope. Chip could read both International Morse and Mouse codes.

VIRGIL TRACY VIRGIL TRACY STOP TRANSMITTING CUT ENGINE OR I WILL ATTACK SRV ALBACORE OVER

"Told ya," Widget couldn't help it.

VIRGIL TRACY I WILL ATTACK IN SIXTY SECONDS MARK

"It's a bluff," Captain Murry said uncertainly.

Chip hesitated, leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though confiding with him. "To be honest," he said, lying through his teeth, "the acting captain doesn't like her much. Can you blame him?"

"I say we lock this maniac below," said the bosun.

Pink eyes flared momentarily. Widget faced the man who had offended her. "Chip is not a maniac," she snapped. All things considered, Chip decided, her error was probably for the best.

Murry hesitated, looked at her, and considered. It was easy to imagine. "Tell them to hold fire," he ordered Widget.

"Why?" she asked innocently. "This isn't _my_ boat." Ostentatiously, she pulled on her swim fins and lowered her goggles.

"This is as good as a confession, you know," Captain Murry told her.

She shook her head. "Uh-uh. I want to sort this out as much as you do, and I have a better chance on my sub. Besides, my son's on _Albacore_ and I'm a nursing mother. I don't think a guy can understand."

"But -" started Captain Murry.

"Aw," said the female rat towering over Widget. "I've got a nest at home too. They're just two years now." She took out a wallet and an accordion - folded photo album cascaded to the deck.

"Mine's seven months, next week," Widget said, brightening. Widget's accordion-fold photo album also reached the deck, but she was closer to it. "I'll bet you can't wait to get back home - I hope you're a good swimmer."

"Your brat's gonna use a bottle tonight," the bosun chuckled.

"You called my son what?" Widget asked gently. Chip desperately elbowed her ribs, producing a hollow thumping sound but no other effect.

Captain Murry considered his position. "Full stop, Sparks, stop the message. Get me a signal lamp. Slowly."

Widget and Chip glanced at one another. He was marking time, knowing that the rest of the navy was converging.

"Excuse me, Captain?" Widget asked politely. Captain Murry turned halfway around to see her.

In the strictest sense of the phrase, nobody could say Widget hit him while his back was turned. The spring-loaded stainless steel club that was her left arm landed on the side of his head while she swept a leg under him to knock him down. This flipped him over the railing and into the ocean, closely followed by Widget and, an instant later, Chip.

Widget struck out for the _Albacore._ She was a good meter and a half ahead of Chip when it occurred to her to look behind.

Chip had gone after the captain. His guess was right; Murry was unconscious, had inhaled water, and was barely floating. The chipmunk pulled him along, keeping his head above water, knowing it was only a matter of time before they were pursued. Widget looked back at him.

"Drop him and c'mon!" she yelled impatiently.

"He'll drown!" Chip yelled back, with what little spare breath he had.

Widget watched him in amazement. "And...?" she asked, finally.

Chip didn't reply. He gritted his teeth and kept swimming.

Widget groaned in exasperation. The only thing keeping her back was the debt she owed Chip, and the fact she didn't want to explain to her sister. She doubled back.

The bosun and some others in the crew had launched a boat and were pulling away from the ship. They'd catch up in a few seconds.

With decided ill humor, the albino mouse grabbed onto the unconscious mouse with her left hand. With her strong stroke (and swim fins) added to Chip's, they were able to pull Murry along at an improved clip. Chip had always been justly proud of his swimming but Widget was like some newly discovered species of aquatic rodent. Even the swim fins couldn't explain all of it.

Chip was convinced Murry's lungs had filled with water, which explained why he was so heavy. Terribly, he wasn't gagging - he needed to have the water emptied and mouth-to-mouth to start him breathing again. They had maybe a minute or two.

Widget gritted her teeth, resenting the useless weight they were pulling. Maybe they could let him go if the boat behind them got too close - unless Murry was very unpopular, they would probably stop to pull him out of the water.

"Wait," Chip said, suddenly frightened. "Where's the _Albacore? _" Widget grinned at him and started to tread water. Almost immediately, he got it.

The bosun frowned. They were getting close to the fugitives in the water and the captain. They must know it. Why had they stopped so suddenly, and more importantly, why was Widget grinning back at him in such a decidedly unpleasant manner?

Suddenly, the three in the water began to move closer to the boat. Oddly, they didn't seem to be swimming. Even more oddly, they began to rise out of the water. For an instant, the bosun felt the dull horror that he was watching something supernatural, and then a moment later he understood and wished he had been watching something supernatural.

The first part of _Albacore_ to break the water was the topmost part of the saw blade running from the bridge down to the bow. It was designed for cutting nets and seaweed, but its polished gleam in the setting sun seemed to be an eager smile responding to an opportunity to bite into something else.

While Chip dropped to the top of the bridge to see about Captain Murry, Widget's eyes seemed to bore into the bosun's. As more and more of the massive, black submarine rose from the water, and the sea water burst into white spray as she clove it, it seemed less and less a machine than some living demon of the ocean which Widget had conjured into existence, which was, of course, true in a sense. As the terror began to show on the bosun's face, Widget's smile widened.

"Slow down?" those terrible pink eyes seemed to say, "_I_ don't think so."

It was at this point the bosun jumped into the water. The moment of panic was to have him up on charges for abandoning his post in the presence of the enemy, but that would not be for days. With panicked screams, the others in the little boat took this as their cue to abandon ship. The boat was caught on the saw blade, rode partway up, and abruptly splintered. The fragments rolled into _Albacore's_ wake.

"Help me get him below," Chip asked.

Hundreds of eyes on _Virgil Tracy_ and _Lucy Tania_ relaxed as _Albacore_ began to turn astern of them. Widget helped Chip carry Murry inside the sub. The first aircraft didn't arrive for almost half an hour; by then, _Albacore_ was long gone.

The Tetragon (Staten City Armed Forces Headquarters) 1720 EST (2220 GMT)

"Finally, put the fleet on Defense Condition Four," Feldmows finished. His aide, Walter, nodded hesitantly. Defcon 5 was peace; defcon 1 was war. Defcon 4 was mostly heightened security and more sophisticated code procedures; adopting it would convince the fleet there was a good reason to be serious.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rat," Feldmows apologized. "Widget Hackwrench apparently kidnapped the captain of the _Virgil Tracy_ while escaping. Did you see that happen?"

Mr. Rat was considerably taken aback. "This is the first I've heard of it, Admiral. I was in the engine room."

"Of course. So you say the _Albacore_ did stop to render assistance?"

"We'd probably be in lifeboats if she hadn't," Mr. Rat declared stoutly.

"Our shore stations and the Kestrel we had out there didn't hear _Albacore_ respond ..." he trailed off and stared at the wall for a long moment before turning to face Mr. Rat again.

"Did they mention there being another boat in the water?"

"Yes," Mr. Rat nodded.

Admiral Feldmows grinned, wide. "So they were maintaining radio silence and looking for the other vessel. Of course." He turned to Walter. "See if you can find Captain Jürgen. I think the two of us can keep this mess from snowballing. If there is a hostile submarine out there, we'll need _Albacore_ on our side. _Cuttlefish_ won't be ready to launch for at least a week."

"Captain Jürgen was arrested and is being held in custody," Walter explained.

Feldmows paused. "In that case," he said slowly, "I think we had better go to Defcon 3." He picked up a phone and hit the speed dial for Mayor Catbane. While he was waiting to be connected, he asked Mr. Rat if he needed a ride to the hotel.

"No, thank you," Mr. Rat said cheerfully. "Your lovely assistant was kind enough to offer."

Feldmows looked at him blankly. Nobody had ever called Walter 'lovely' in Feldmows' presence before.

"No, I didn't..." Walter said nervously.

"Of course not," Mr. Rat chuckled. "I meant the young lady over there."

Feldmows looked where Mr. Rat was pointing, at a woman in uniform with her back turned to them.

She was standing in front of a thermostat and writing onto a notepad. As though she was doing something important. A thermostat.

As the blood rushed to Feldmows' face, he slammed the receiver down, unaware he was hanging up on his own Commander in Chief . "Miss Stacey," he said with a controlled voice, "Security is about to take you into custody for trespassing and impersonating an officer of the armed forces. I do hope you will attempt to resist."

"Trespassing?" she asked innocently. "Admiral, nobody told me to leave or what my name was. I will, naturally, leave now that I've been asked."

Security at Defcon 5 was so lax she might be able to get away with it. "And impersonating an officer?"

"Did you notice the fleet patch?" she asked.

Feldmows squinted. "'Earth Defense Force, 3rd Fleet, Alpha Centauri' ... oh, fun-nee." There was now no way to press formal charges against her without first admitting she had strolled into the nerve center of the Staten City Navy dressed for a science fiction convention and had not been challenged. The press, and worse, the Army would never let him live it down.

"So what's this about Jürgen being arrested?" Syril asked casually, ready to take notes. "Granted, marrying Widget isn't smart and at his age marrying a twenty-two year old girl might even be considered tasteless, but I don't think it's actually illegal."

"Widget's twenty-two?" Walter and Mr. Rat asked in amazement.

Feldmows dialed Catbane again. "The mayor ordered anyone in _Albacore's_ crew to be held. I don't think he knew her husband was one of them, or that it might, uhm..."

"Set her off like a firecracker?"

"Well put."

"Thank you. I am a professional writer, you know."

Ultra-Flight Laboratories, Brooklyn NY, 1730 EST (2230 GMT)

"Cripes!" Clayton yelled. He banged his desk in frustration. "Cripes, cripes, cripes!"

A middle-aged gray squirrel poked his head in. "Problem, Clayton?" he asked, exaggerating his Midwestern drawl.

Clayton looked over at Neil and smiled. Neil was a test pilot, one of Ultra-Flight's best; arguably the best, now that Geegaw was gone. "You might say that," he agreed. "It sounds like Widget Hackwrench and Staten City are heading for a dust-up."

Neil whistled. "That's bad. A lot of animals could get hurt."

"Yes, that too," Clayton agreed with a surprised note in his voice. That hadn't occurred to him. "It's likely the home office is going to back Staten City."

"That's probably true," Neil agreed. "They buy more planes than Widget does."

"But in the long run, I wonder if that's really ... " He looked up, suddenly. "Did I ever tell you I went to college in Thorn Valley?"

"No, you didn't," Neil settled himself down. He was in no rush and always happy to listen to stories. "I've never been there."

"The place feels like a ... a pretty dream, but the dreamer's about to wake up. That's the only reason I left." He went silent for a moment. "Justin's a military dictator. The fact he's a _nice_ military dictator doesn't change that. I wouldn't have kids there."

"I've never cared much for the word 'Leader' used as a title for the chief of state," Neil agreed dryly.

Clayton chuckled. "Me either. I don't know what Nicodemus was thinking. I met Nicodemus before the move," Clayton said with a smile, remembering. "That rat was a prophet, a philosopher. They don't come along often."

Neil shrugged. "When Humans start handing out relocation checks before cutting down a section of forest, I'll start worrying about stealing."

"You're right, of course," Clayton sighed and shook it head. "Still, there's something Nicodemus didn't think of. Something important."

"What's that?"

"He saw it as a choice between self-sufficiency and theft. But there's a third option." Clayton shook his head. "None of that matters. I'm sorry, Neil."

"No problem," Neil shrugged amiably. "I didn't know you had met him."

"Neil ..." Clayton's voice turned urgent. "The head office is probably going to ask the Peregrine prototypes to go on anti-submarine patrols on behalf of the Staten City Navy. Maybe even send Falcons out to run down HFDF contacts."

"Seems likely," Neil agreed warily.

"I think it would be an absolute disaster if anyone found something."

Neil hesitated. Despite the fact Clayton was a bit slippery in office politics, Neil and every other pilot knew one thing: Clayton would never, never compromise on the safety of his pilots, not for anything. And if something went wrong, he wouldn't leave an orphan alone in a plane for a year. For a pilot with kids, that counted. A lot.

"I think so, too," Neil nodded. He got up. "I'll talk to the other pilots."

Clayton smiled. "Much obliged."

SRV _Albacore, _ 2245 GMT (1745 EST)

"You get around, Andy," Chip told the little mole.

Andy grinned. "I'm cross training as a torpedo mechanic. They put me on duty here until von Kugleblitz gets cleared. Are your ears bothering you?"

"A little, like being in a plane."

"Yeah, it happens on subs, too." The mole offered him some chewing gum, which Chip accepted with thanks.

"And that's eleven," Mr. Calvert couldn't help but say, pointedly, as Chip nodded. "Would you like us to do it again?" he asked. Although he had to admit the chipmunk had gone above and beyond - saving Captain Murry had been very wise, in his opinion - Chip's methodical, type A personality had grated more than just a bit during this inspection. He had even put a chalk "X" on each torpedo nosecap as they were inspected, to prevent a shell game with the loaders.

"That won't be necessary," Chip said indistinctly around the gum without looking up from his notebook. "There's four torpedo rooms, right?"

"Yes. Starboard, Port, Bow, and Aft. Starboard and Port hold eleven with three tubes each, Bow and Aft hold six with one tube."

"Thirty four torpedoes in all," Chip said. "But if you were to fill up the tubes and the spare chambers -"

"Forty-six." Mr. Calvert nodded. "But that makes it impossible to move the torpedoes around to inspect."

"Right." Chip nodded. "I want to put this in an email I'm sending back to home. I asked Widget if we could surface long enough to send it when I'm through."

"What are you telling them?" Mister Calvert asked.

"Well," Chip said, considering, "this is kind of a weird case. Either _Albacore_ launched the torpedo, or someone else did. If _Albacore_ launched the torpedo, then it's either accidental or deliberate. If it's accidental, we should be able to find evidence of an accident, which we can't. If it's deliberate, then why would Widget put a torpedo into a cruise ship?"

"Then it was probably another ship."

"But that just changes the suspect. Why would they put a torpedo into a cruise ship? And why only one?"

Mister Calvert stiffened. "They only had one."

"Now you're thinking like me," Chip grinned. He put his notebook down. "I'm sorry I've been such a pain in the tailbone. But when I'm done, we can go to any judge in Staten City and convince him that this was not an accident, and that you're not involved."



Since Gimcrack's favorite books were a bit beyond him, Dale was entertaining the infant in a different way: he was teaching the baby to make a variety of strange noises with his lips. This was new and unexplored ground for Gimcrack, who was finding it almost as entertaining as Dale did.

Before marrying Jürgen, Widget had her own bathroom and shower, which was incorporated into her combined room with Jürgen. A long - very long - hot shower had warmed her up quite nicely. Since she knew Dale was in the next room, she left the shower in a long robe. She was drying her hair with a towel, one handed; her left arm was on the wall.

"Thanks very much for watching Gimcrack," she said.

"Plplplbbbbtt!" said Gimcrack, and smiled proudly.

"Thanks so very much," she said through clenched teeth.

"That's okay," Dale said amiably. "It was fun."

"Bpbbbttphpbt!" Gimcrack agreed.

*We can live with this,* she mused, *as long as he doesn't try it while nursing.*

"You know," Dale said seriously, "this whole thing kinda reminds me of _Star Truck 6: The Undiscovered Shakespearean References_ when it looked like Captain Duncan launched a torpedo at a Nognilk diplomat but it was really a cloaked Nognilk destroyer nearby."

"Kind of ironic," Widget nodded, "since they put those cloaking shields in the old series so they could swipe a movie about a destroyer hunting a U-boat."

Dale gasped. "No way!"

There came a rap at the door. "Come," Widget said immediately, hanging her towel over her left shoulder to cover her missing arm. The deck was starting to move a bit, as they got nearer to the surface waves.

It was Chief Barra, escorting the now-conscious and cleaned Captain Murry. He had a bandage over the lump on his cheek, but was otherwise not seriously affected. His uniform was being washed and dried; he had been lent a shirt from someone.

"Captain Murry," Widget said with a nod. "I hope you're feeling well."

Murry scowled and rubbed his jaw, which must have been hurting. "I'll feel better once I get my hands on that chipmunk."

"No, that was me," Widget corrected.

Murry hesitated. "_You_ punched me?" he asked, in clearly skeptical tones.

Dale remembered the time Gadget had fought her sister. The arm on the wall had curled around Gadget and had come close to breaking ribs. "She's got a mean backhand," Dale explained. "I saw her play squash with Gadget once."

"Anyway," Widget said, "I'm very sorry for any inconvenience. You hit the water unconscious and Chip saved you. He couldn't let you drown. If you had been wearing a life jacket as required by your navy, this would never have happened. Naturally, we'll turn you loose at our next port of call. In the mean time, I'll be happy to give you the run of the ship - apart from secure areas - if you will promise not to sabotage her."

"You can't beat the entire Staten City Navy."

"I don't intend to try. I built the Staten City Navy," she reminded him. "I'm quite certain this is all a misunderstanding and that we can work it out. I just hope nobody gets hurt in the meantime. And I really don't want to have to restrict you to quarters."

"Why didn't you give up to me, then?" He was obviously suspicious.

"Good question." She nodded amiably. "Well, since I think miscommunication is at the root of many conflicts, it's only fair I should explain. Captain, I'll see you, your ship, and all her crew at the bottom of the ocean before I'll go back to prison." She smiled. It wasn't pretty.

"Back?" Dale asked.

Widget blinked. "I misspoke. I meant before I'll go to prison, of course."

There was another knock at the door. "Come," she said immediately.

It was the computer officer, Mr. Norton. He held a small piece of paper and wore an anxious expression.

"Ma'am," he gulped. "I'm sorry to bother you. But there's a wire report that Captain Jürgen has been arrested by the Staten City Police."

There was a long silence. Even Gimcrack stopped making noises.

"Byline?" she finally asked.

"Syril Stacey."

"I see. Please forward me the entire report. Thank you, Mister Norton."

Norton nodded once and slipped back out. Dale was in an unusual situation: he was speechless. He desperately hoped Widget wouldn't do something stupid.

"Captain Murry," she finally said, "please consider yourself a prisoner. Chief Barra, please escort the prisoner to the brig."

"Heh, heh," Captain Murry heh'd. "I know what happened here. You screwed up, hit a passenger liner with a torpedo, and now you're trying to sweep it all under the carpet, with fairy tales about other submarines. But it won't work, you megalomaniac. Ask not whence comes that icy hand around your throat and heart; for it is justice, long delayed yet implacable!"

*Uh-oh,* Dale thought, resigned to a long-winded reply.

"Don't try to out-rant me," she said quietly. "I'm too angry. Chief Barra?"

Without a sound, Chief Barra picked up Captain Murry by the scruff of the neck and took him out.

Widget sat down at her husband's work station. Heavily.

"Widget," Dale asked, "wouldja like me to leave you alone?"

"No," she said, surprising herself.

He ducked his head and sort of squatted down next to her. "Dale," she asked, "what have I gotten Jürgen into?"

"Nothin' he won't walk out of," Dale reassured her.

"I'm never going to see him again." Her voice was curiously resigned, dead.

"Don't say that," Dale said sternly, suddenly alarmed. "Don't even think it!"

"It's a very real possibility."

"Widget, this is all a misunderstanding. Chip will prove it, and then Jürgen will be back."

She looked up at him. "Why do you think so?"

"Because you're innocent," he said positively. "And even if you're not, he is."

"Chip's not convinced of that."

"Wrong. Chip won't admit it. He thinks he has to prove it, but he knows it as sure as I do."

Pink eyes peered at him curiously. "Why do you think I'm innocent?"

Dale held up a hand. "One: if you wanted to torpedo that ship, you wouldn't have two Rescue Rangers aboard. Two: if you were sailing into a brawl, you wouldn't leave your combat veteran skipper on shore. Three: you wouldn't leave your husband on shore where he's vulnerable. Four: you said you are, and I don't think you're likely to do something you won't admit."

She looked away. "I put you in a death trap."

"I didn't say you wouldn't do anything bad," Dale contradicted her tranquilly. "I just said you would admit to doing it. In fact, you'd probably put on a production with a lot of maniacal laughter."

Widget rested her forehead against her hand. She closed her eyes, and Dale was surprised to see tears squeezed out. The first tears soaked into the thin fur on her cheeks, saturating it; the next rolled down.

"Widget," Dale said, alarmed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to joke about-"

"No - no, it wasn't your joke," she assured him. "Dale, there's something I did, that I never told Jürgen. Even after he asked me. I couldn't say it. I wanted to, but I didn't. He said it could wait, and I didn't get a chance before we sailed." He voice was very controlled. "I'm sorry - give me a minute. I'll be okay."

"It's all right. Widget, do you wanna tell me?"

She looked at him suspiciously.

"Hey," he said, and smiled, "Jürgen and I were with you at opposite ends of the same pregnancy." She laughed; it was amazing how pretty her laugh could be when it didn't involve crushing her opponents. "If you tell me, you'll feel better."

"Do you think so?"

"Sure." He hesitated. "Chip used to do the same for me. You see, my parents died when I was twelve. Chip's parents brought me up."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Heck, at least I knew them. It was a long time ago. I used to tell him things I meant to tell my parents but didn't."

"Okay," she sighed. "Dale, you know that before I met Jürgen, I knew Dangermouse."

"When you were nineteen, right?"

"Yeah." Then to his look, she said, defensively, "I didn't tell him. He thought I was his age."

"All right," Dale heaved a sigh of relief.

"And about four years before I knew Dangermouse, I was in that vigilante group."

"Nightsword."

She blinked. "You figured it out?"

Dale considered. When she had told him, the night before Gimcrack's birth, she really hadn't made it clear it was a confidence. "Well," he said nonchalantly, "I _am_ a Rescue Ranger."

She nodded. "I was one of the founding members. There was this chipmunk, named Stripes. About a year after the group started, he and I started seeing one another."

"How old was he?" Dale asked innocently.

Widget spent a few moments breathing deeply. "Look," she finally said, "I used to have this thing for older guys, okay?"

Dale considered Jürgen for a moment, and then weighed the benefits of mentioning this against the likelihood Widget would pounce on him and remove his spleen. Dale liked his spleen, so he nodded seriously.

"What was Stripes like?" Dale asked.

Widget smiled, warmly. "No matter how bad things were, he'd always smile. He's have a joke for anything. When things got bad, and we were starting to shout at each other, he'd clear the air like a laughing thunderstorm, and we'd be back to doing something productive. We were going to be married once I was of legal age."

She was smiling at the memory now. Dale felt relieved. At least this part didn't seem to bother her much. "What happened to him?" Dale coaxed gently.

She looked troubled.

"Widget, did you kill him?"

She jerked as though stung by a wasp. Amazed, she stared at him. "How did --?"

"You told me," he reminded her, "the night before Gimcrack was born."

She looked away. "Dale, I swear, I didn't mean to kill them."

"I know." He patted her thigh. "How did it happen?"

"Well," she said reluctantly, "You have to understand how Nightsword started, how we worked. Originally, we were kind of a militia. We'd have agreements with a block, we'd patrol, we'd help people out. But we were bigger than the Rangers. There were too many of us, working full time. So for protection, blocks would pay us in food, recruits, that sort of thing."

"You said you fought Rat Capone."

She smiled. "We beat him. Why do you think he's only got two henchmen nowadays? Like I said, it worked fine for a while. But they we ran into problems. Like what do you do if one place on the block doesn't want to pay? Or two?" She couldn't meet his eyes. "In a few months, people were paying us to leave them alone."

"You turned into a protection racket."

"Yes."

"What were you doing?"

"Well, since I spent all my time in the underground base building new things, I could pretend I just didn't know what was happening. I heard rumors, of course. Stripes was ... well, Stripes wasn't very serious minded. Still it was eating at him. But I was happy doing what I was doing, so I fooled myself into not believing them. Or something."

"When did you find out?"

"These moles who lived nearby broke into my workshop. We got along pretty well. They convinced me." She sighed. "So I decided I was going to blow it all up; everything I built, collapse the base, everything. Of course, I had to get everyone else out first. But I guess they ... I guess they figured it out. They found some of the explosives, and they chased me to the master charge, up a big spiral staircase to the surface. I collapsed part of the staircase behind me. I had planned ahead.

"They didn't really think I was going to do it. They could have shot me any time. Maybe they would have even let me go. But I couldn't let them use the things I had built. Anyway, I was next to a timer. The timer was going to set off a bomb, and the pressure wave was going to set off the rest and collapse the entire complex. So they couldn't just cut a wire or two and keep it from going off. They shot the timer. I could set it off by bridging the gap between two contacts, but I'd be caught in the explosion. I really thought it would kill me.

"I was begging them to leave through the back way, swearing to them that I was going to do it. But I saw some of them were going to disarm the master charge. I had to set it off. I could tell, only Stripes knew me well enough to know I wasn't bluffing. He could have told them but he didn't. He could have shot me, but he didn't." She hesitated. "He loved me too much. He loved me so much, he couldn't shoot me to save himself, his friends... even when he thought I was going to die anyway. But I didn't die."

"I didn't think so," Dale assured her.

"You're a good observer. Those moles dug me out. It was two days before I could hear anything, and another week before I could walk." She rubbed her eyes angrily. "The first thing I heard was music. The party celebrating the fall of Nightsword was still going on. The party in my honor."

"They appreciated what you did for them."

"Oh, I'm not angry at them, it's just ... look, you don't kill a lover, and have people call you a hero for it without feeling a bit strange."

"Is that when you gave up?"

"Gave up what?" she asked, knowing what he meant.

"Gave up caring about right and wrong." He shook his head. "I guess I can't blame you. I'll bet for years you thought about how much better it would feel if you had just kept going along with Nightsword, pretending you didn't know anything that made you uncomfortable."

Pink eyes dropped to the floor and he knew he was dead on target. "The real world doesn't care about right or wrong," she said quietly. "There's power and expediency. That's all."

"Maybe you're right," Dale admitted. He looked at her more seriously than she had thought his face could. "But I think we can be better than the world. And, Widget, it really, really hurts me that someone as smart as you and someone I like as much as you disagrees."

There were three lit panels on the front bulkhead, by the torpedo doors. They read:

W A R S H O T L O A D E D

TUBE 1 TUBE 2 TUBE 3

"So," Chip asked von Kugleblitz, "since there's only one guy in each torpedo room, it must be easy to load a torpedo."

"Yes, it is," von Kugleblitz agreed. They were sitting in the port torpedo room. Once Chip was convinced there were eleven torpedoes in the room, von Kugleblitz had been returned to duty. He had some lingering resentment for the chipmunk in the fedora, but at the same time he realized there was nothing personal in Chip's suspicion. He was a cop; he had to suspect everyone. It had to be a strange life. "You select a chamber, then you select a tube to load." He pointed to a console with twelve buttons in a rectangle, and three in a row below it. "Most of the time, you're maintaining the torpedoes."

"Do you do keep a log?" Chip asked.

Von Kugleblitz handed Chip a list:

S# TR Date ------------------------- F76 P 02-Dec F7A F7E F7S F87 F8D ------------------------- D06 B 03-Dec D0A H60 ------------------------- F77 S 04-Dec F7C F7N F7Z F8B F8E ------------------------- F70 A 05-Dec N19 N1E N1F N1J N1P ------------------------- D0G B 07-Dec H62 H65 ------------------------- F8S S 08-Dec T89 T8R T8Z ------------------------- F8J P 09-Dec F8U T87 T8G ------------------------- D06 B 10-Dec D0A H60 ------------------------- F70 A 12-Dec N19 N1E N1F ------------------------- F8J P 13-Dec F8U T8T T90

"That's my master log," von Kugleblitz explained. "The torpedo serial number - which is painted on the fin - the torpedo room - Port, Bow, Starboard, and Aft - and the date I last checked it out. We rotate our posts, you'll notice."

"So you work four days, and take a day off?" Chip asked, studying the list.

"Yes, that's right."

Chip grinned. "Does the first letter show give the type of torpedo?"

"That's right."

"Are 'Ds' and 'Hs' tough to work on? I see you only do three a day."

"Yes, that's right. Those are Decoys and acoustic Homing. Tricky."

"It looks like your job's gotten harder recently. You used to do five or six of the Foxes and Tangos a day."

"That's Andy's idea," he answered with a smile. "He wants to see if he can organize things more efficiently - get us to do only four a day, to make it more predictable." He shrugged. "He probably read it in a book - he'll learn. Personally, when I get in the groove, I like to keep going."

Chip lifted his eyebrows. It was certainly unusual for a junior seaman like Andy - even one on the fast track - to be given latitude like that. It was even more surprising that von Kugleblitz was willing to smile at it as a foible instead of using it as evidence the young mole was a fool. Von Kugleblitz liked Andy. _Albacore_ was a happy ship.

"Andy's a nice guy," Chip agreed. "He's been a big help."

"He's like that. He'll even stand a torpedo watch on his day off so you can get out, get something to eat, stretch your legs."

"Who fills in when you're taking a day off?"

"Usually Andy, or Weapons Officer Fluffy."

Chip looked at him blankly. "Weapons Officer Fluffy?"

"Don't talk, 'Chip.'"

"Good point. I thought Andy was a power plant stoker."

"He's been moved over to weapons," von Kugleblitz said with a nod.

"That must be unusual."

"Well, it generally happens for one of two reasons. Either he's a screw-up being dumped from one department to another, or he's being groomed for an officer's berth. Andy's sharp. In a couple of years, he'll make a good Watch Officer."

"Yes, I think he will," Chip agreed. Not for the first time in his career, he was very happy that people in general liked to talk about their jobs.

To: GH@Public_Library.org

We have met in the past, but for the moment I prefer to remain anonymous. There are dark forces moving against your family, and they could threaten me as well.

Your grandfather has never forgiven your mother for marrying against his wishes. The Catbane family has connections with other clans, long alliances forged in blood and marriage relations. Despite the democratic mask he wears for politics in America, Jerome Catbane considers you, your sister, and nephew both tainted by Geegaw Hackwrench's blood, at the same time they are the best representatives of the Catbanes in their generations. Yet none of them would tolerate being directed to marry someone acceptable to Jerome.

As such, they pose a potential threat to Catbane's legacy. He needs a pretext to move against them; once he get it, he will. He would rather see this branch pruned than risk its flourishing more than the tree.

-- Deep Stoat

It's a little far fetched, Zipper said dubiously.

"It would explain a lot," Monty rumbled. For the sake of what had happened in Catbane's office, the burly mouse was willing to believe anything bad about him; maybe even more so than Gadget and Widget were. "It even explains Cassie's prophesy. 'A defenseless mouse is both loved and threatened by a friend.' Widget thought Catbane was her friend, an' he loves her for all 'e's willin' to sacrifice 'er."

"I wouldn't call Widget 'defenseless,'" Foxglove observed shyly. "What with her submarine and three atomic bombs and all." She tried to suppress her anger towards Gadget and succeeded. They were in the middle of a life or death situation - and that was much, much more important than the happiness or heartbreak of one silly little bat.

Monty shot her a look. "Would you call 'er 'disarmed?'"

"It doesn't matter," Gadget dismissed the argument. "It's a possibility. An unlikely one, but a possibility which will remain open until we can reject it. Agreed?"

Three heads bobbed in agreement.

"Trackball is trying to trace where this message came from. She said she'd call." Gadget pressed "Done" to close the message, and selected the one from Chip.

To: GH@Public_Library.org

I guess you know that our training's on hold until this mess gets sorted out. I just hope your sister's temper doesn't make things worse - she didn't handle the news about Jürgen well at all. Nobody wants this to blow out of proportion, but nobody wanted that to happen with the Archduke Ferdinand either. It feels like I'm being pulled in five directions at once!

It's very important you guys do nothing until Dale and I get back. I don't want us splitting up and risking defeat in detail.

Dale sends all his love to Foxglove, and asks her to tape MST3K for him while he's gone.

I'm getting my sea legs back. Everyone's been very friendly, and life on a sub is a little strange in some of the details.

I dunno where to begin. There hasn't been much action; the food aboard is plain, and I think our fly friend Zipper would be sure to gripe about it. No one complains, according to custom aboard. Our esteemed host, Widget, expects some time in May to visit - we have been drawing on her hospitality in spades, building us a prison of obligation.

Give Monty a hug from me!

- Chip

Zipper blinked. When had he, a fly, ever complained about food? Maybe when it was a bit too fresh...

"He says we shouldn't do anything," Foxglove observed. She couldn't suppress a frown. Did Dale really think *she* would forget to record Mystery Science Theater 3000?

"Well, actually," Gadget said, "there's no way to get a secure message to the tree, because we use a cellular phone for voice and email, so-"

"Steganography," Monty grinned ear to ear and mussed Gadget's hair playfully. "You are your daddy's little girl, ain't you?"

Zipper tried to say.

"Concealing a short message in a bigger one," Gadget explained. "The last sentence in the first paragraph has a number in it. So you read every fifth word -"

"That until out sister's worse news all blow nobody with it pulled once guys and don't and Dale to to while my been on little the to much is our be it to host in have hospitality a a!" Foxglove declared triumphantly. "Of course!" Then doubt crossed her features. "Uhm..."

"Every fifth word in the fifth paragraph," Gadget corrected gently. "The rest of the message can be ignored."

Then that meant Dale hadn't sent his love. Foxglove suppressed a tremor. "Begin action plain fly sure no custom --"

"That's it," Gadget interrupted, turning off the PalmPilot so the rest couldn't be read. "It's only five words long, apart from the code phrase 'begin action.'"

It hurt to lie to them, but the rest could be shared with Monty, alone. Foxy and Zipper were family, but they weren't family enough. It wasn't Gadget's secret to give.

I don't get it, Zipper mused.

"Nope," Gadget assured him. "He used homonyms. 'Begin action' means he wants us to do something. In the rest he's drawing attention to something unusual that happened, that we might not have noticed."

"A Navy Kestrel just 'appened to be in th' area." Monty mused. "It landed on _Lucy Tania_ t' pick up an injured sailor, and it flew to shore without clearing customs."

Gadget nodded. "Interesting, don't you think?"

Monty suddenly noticed something else that was interesting: in Chip's absence, Gadget had automatically assumed his informal position of command - and nobody minded.

"What's our next move, Gadget-love?"

"I think we need to follow up Chip's lead," Gadget said. Out of pure habit before turning off the palmtop computer they used for email, she connected and built a list of mail on the server. She would have jumped out of her socks if she wore any.

From Deep_Stoat@coldmail.com, a message with the subject "Urgent I see you."

She downloaded the message, disconnected, and jumped to the mail reader:

To: GH@Public_Library.org

I had hoped my warning would reach you in time to prevent the trumped- up charges against your sister, but apparently they have not. Feldmows is Catbane's catspaw in this. But there is still time to save yourself and your sister.

Come to the roof of the 5th Precinct police station tonight, and come alone. If you bring friends, I will assume you were followed and will not contact you.

-- Deep Stoat

Zipper snorted.

"Even so..." Gadget whispered.

"Well," Monty shrugged, a slow smile creeping over his features. "Shall we ... check it out? We'll have to wait 'till tomorrow to follow Chip's lead anyway."

"Can I too?" Foxglove yipped hopefully.

"I don't see why not," Gadget lifted both eyebrows.

Zipper cleared his throat and made the bugle call.

"Rescue Rangers, Away!" the four of them cried out.

And the only thing that would have made it better for Foxglove was if her wing were around Dale instead of Monty.

5th Precinct, Manhattan 2328 EST (0428 GMT)

A highly sophisticated night hunter slowly circled the 5th Precinct building, sweeping the proposed landing zone with enhanced night vision and passive parabolic audio. Foxglove was a master at detecting while remaining undetected, and unlike Zipper, she could see fine in starlight. The neon of the city and late night office work cast more than enough on the station house. Of course, police precincts are always open, but even they have periods of reduced activity. Much of the building was still and unoccupied. An animal intruder would have little trouble finding a spare terminal, in Foxglove's opinion.

Foxglove flew back to the Ranger Wing, which was flying slowly. Of course, she had no problem finding it. "I heard a heartbeat from the northeast corner of the roof, about 120 beats per minute." she said. "I didn't see him, so he must be concealed. I'd guess he's a medium-sized animal, like a small cat."

"C-cat? Uh... roight," Monty cracked his knuckles with a crooked grin. "I'll just 'ave a word or two with -"

"Monty," Gadget said patiently, "We're not even sure it is a cat. And the message was sent from inside, so he's probably just a bystander. I'll go talk with him, while you guys ..."

Prickles watched incredulously as the little blonde mouse walked towards him, confidently as though in her nest. "Hi!" she called out. "I'm Gadget, a Rescue Ranger, and -"

The porcupine hadn't heard an aircraft land, and he had no idea how the rodent had spotted him, but it was irrelevant. He stepped out towards her, seeing her for the first time in the low light.

"Hello, beautiful," he smiled. "If you relax, dying won't hurt a bit."

He expected surprise, fear, panic, rage, confusion, or even disgust; he didn't expect a crooked smile and a lifted eyebrow. "Really?"

At that moment, there was a twang, and a rush of air, and a net appeared from nowhere, enveloping him. Monty grinned, grabbed the line reeled out of the pintle mount suction harpoon and gave a sharp tug.

The net fell to pieces.

*Golly,* thought Gadget. *He must have sharpened the edges of his spines, instead of just leaving the tips pointy.* Then, a moment later, the equally important thought: *This is not good.* The porcupine was almost a head taller than Monty, and was even rounder.

Prickles broke into a run, towards her, as though he was a linebacker and she had the ball. Without hesitating, she dropped to the tar roof and rolled towards him. She felt a foot pinned under her body, right before he went over. Fortunately, he was going too fast to land on her. She felt a slight tug at her left leg and got to her feet.

Prickles was too round to stop quickly, so he rolled a good part of the roof, into darkness. Gadget looked about warily, searching for any movement. She touched the cut on her left leg. She was relieved that she felt only a little blood; nasty, but not arterial. Where was Monty? Where was -

Foxglove landed in front of her, almost nose to nose. "Hiya," the bat said.

Past Foxglove, Gadget saw the porcupine race out of the darkness. "Foxglove!" Gadget gasped. "Behind -"

Foxglove wrapped the claws on her feet around Gadget's ankles. Her wings swept out and powerfully down; the surge of wind rocketing them both almost a foot in the air. Gadget toppled backwards and dangled, upside down, to see the porcupine bounce off a wall. Hard.

"He thought he could sneak up on a bat," Foxglove said with a giggle. "Sneak up on a bat," she repeated, chuckling. She fluttered downwards. Gadget landed on her hands and came to her feet. The bat landed next to her, and Gadget could hear her panting. A vertical takeoff and short hover carrying twice her usual weight wasn't easy. Zipper gritted his teeth and prepared to rush.

"Zipper, no!" Gadget snapped.

Zipper buzzed mightily, launching himself at the enemy with all the power he possessed. Normally, he preferred to run interference, but he was angry. Nobody was going to threaten to kill a Ranger without getting at least one lump from the fly. He focussed his eyes on the porcupine's forehead.

Prickles saw him coming, and swung.

Zipper veered, forcing himself down, working with gravity. He almost made it. A spine cut one of his wings in half. The end fluttered away, Zipper went into a spin, and crashed, rolling.

Gadget shot after Zipper, and Foxglove sprinted after, half hopping and half flying, keeping herself between the porcupine and the blonde mouse. Her wing ached, at the wrist; the popup had strained her a bit. She wasn't sure what she could do, but she made herself Gadget's guard anyway.

Zipper got up, groggy. He flapped a bit and fell down.

I'll be okay, he assured Gadget. It'll grow back.

She wasn't satisfied, but there wasn't much she could do. She looked around, trying to find a stick or nail or something to hit the porcupine with. Using fists would be suicide, and more importantly, it didn't occur to her. She didn't get into fistfights; she used tools. Ironically, the roof had recently been policed.

Prickles slowly rose to his knees. A new voice came from behind him; pleasant, male, with an accent.

"Mate, what comes after two?"

"Three," Prickles replied, befuddled enough from the impact with a wall.

"Fore!" Monty cried out gleefully, swinging the Ranger Wing's recently pintle mounted plunger harpoon into Prickles' chin. The impact was doubtless spread and cushioned by Prickles' spines, but it was still sufficient to lift the porcupine up and flip him over onto his back. Prickles spat blood, stood, and gave Monty a murderous look immediately before Monty got him with the backswing. Monterey didn't care to fight with weapons, but his preferred mix of sumo and western wrestling, using bulk and strength, would have meant the death of a thousand cuts. Monty then let the momentum swing him all the way around and landed a swing on the back of Prickles' head. Humans would have called it a "rabbit blow."

What rabbits called a "Tutankhamen" worked reasonably well on porcupines, considering how well armored they are. It knocked the porcupine to his knees. Monty followed up with a swing straight down on his crown, which Prickles blocked by catching the club between crossed wrists. Prickles lashed out with his left hand, catching Monty across the face.

The pain was so great for a moment Monty thought he had lost his left eye. He soon realized it was merely blinded by a flow of blood from a cut. He hurled himself backwards to avoid the inevitable second strike in the combination, and caught his heel on a TV antenna cable. He fell over, landing on his back with a grunt.

In an instant, the porcupine lept for him.

Knowing it was better to loose an extremity than to let one of those spines penetrate his thorax, Monty lifted his foot and caught Prickles on the midriff, blocking him with the plunger harpoon held sideways. The wind rushed out of the larger animal, and pain flashed through Monty's lacerated foot pads, but both animals ignored it.

"If you had stayed out of my way, you'd see the sun tomorrow," the porcupine said softly.

"So you're after Gadget? Why?"

"Nothing personal. I'm just a hired hand."

The porcupine began to push the plunger harpoon to one side, matching raw strength against strength and winning. Prickles had taken a fierce beating, but there was no doubt in his mind he was ahead. The girls had probably run away, but Prickles would have this mouse who was making him fight harder for a victory than he ever had before. He pushed Monty's weapon aside, and drew back a fist to open the mouse's throat.

Monty suddenly smiled. Prickles glanced at the weapon and --

-- realized Monty had reloaded the plunger harpoon, removing the suction cup. Prickles had just pushed it into a firing position.

"Sweet dreams," Monty said before he pulled the trigger.

Prickles took a point-blank, muzzle-velocity plunger right in the nose.

Prickles rolled over, unable to feel anything for the moment but blood clogging his smashed nose and running back down in his throat. With every breath through his mouth, he coughed blood onto the roof. He didn't even feel the pain; breathing had his attention. He had a bit of luck; he tangled in the line from the harpoon, pulling it out of Monty's hands as he rolled.

Prickles got to his feet and faced his adversary. Monty staggered to his feet, and limped towards him. He took off his helmet and wrapped it around his right fist. He'd be reduced to a right jab, but he knew he could finish the job.

Monty pounded away at Prickles' nose. "I. Told. You. To. Stay. Down!"

Prickles finally got a blow back in, swiping across Monty's sweater, scoring three deep tears through the cable stitch and the flesh below.

Monty yelled, more in anger than pain. He swung his right fist into the splattered ruin of Prickles' nose -- and Prickles blocked, driving a spine through his forearm.

Without hesitating, Monty drove his left hand, open palm, into Prickles' face. The porcupine released a scream that was mostly a liquid gurgle, and wrapped his arms around the mouse, lifting his feet from the floor.

As the spines cut into him, Monty, released a long bellow. He grabbed a quill on Prickles' head, and brought the porcupine's face down against his own crown. Again. And again. And harder.

Prickles let go, unable to take the punishment any more. Monty pulled free, the spine in his right arm tearing loose. Monty jumped backwards. Prickles stepped forwards, ready to finish it. And fell backwards, as Gadget and Foxglove caught the backs of his knees with a cord stretched between the two of them.

Prickles fell, landing on a modified mousetrap catapult. It was Gadget's, used to provide quick commuter service back to the tree.

"Stay down, or fly," Gadget ordered. She aimed her plunger harpoon at the trigger. Prickles decided she didn't have much of a chance of hitting the tiny bit of metal, and rolled to get off the mousetrap.

Monty had noticed Gadget never missed what she was aiming at, and she wasn't going to miss now. "Gadget --" he started, horrified.

Gadget fired the harpoon. It seemed to Monty that things suddenly went in slow motion. The harpoon hit the trigger. The mousetrap fired. And Prickles was flipped into the air.

Only he hadn't been positioned right on the mousetrap. Instead of arcing towards the Ranger tree and the safe landing target, he went sideways.

He barely cleared the edge of the roof. Foxglove was airborne in a flash, but he was spinning too fast to catch her and his spines were too sharp for her to risk grabbing him. Back up on the roof, two mice and a fly heard, or imagined they heard, a soft crunch when Prickles hit the sidewalk.

Gadget was on the fire escape in a flash, racing down three stories in what was barely less than a controlled fall. Monty grabbed Zipper and somehow, despite his foot and the open wounds, was able to catch up on the ground. He grabbed her shoulder.

"Gadget, love," he said quietly, "let me--"

"Let me go!" she shouted. "Monty, I have to --"

"NO!" Monty screamed at her. The anger that exploded out of him was almost visible, a kind of wave. He shook her by the shoulders, the blood covering most of his face making him an unrecognizable monster. "Young lady, you WILL listen to me! You WILL stand right here and _not - move - an - inch! _ Do you HEAR ME!?"

They stared at one another for a moment, and she finally, reluctantly, nodded.

Foxglove came over and wrapped her wings around her. "It's okay, Gadget. Just wait here with me. It's okay." She nodded at Monty.

Monterey and Zipper went out to the porcupine. Monty heaved a sigh of relief. Prickles' face was turned away from Gadget, and if she saw that, he didn't think she would ever stop seeing it. Monty looked at Zipper, who firmly shook his head. Flies were never wrong about this.

Monty took off his coat and draped it over Prickles' face.

For a moment, Gadget didn't understand the gesture. "Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God..." she heard it repeated before she even realized it was her. She dropped to all fours, Foxglove holding her so she slipped gently down. Staring at the concrete, she went on. "Oh God, oh God, oh God..."

If it was a curse, a prayer, or an apology, even Gadget wasn't sure.

Foxglove held the shaking mouse, unable to think of anything to say. At that moment, if she could have made it better by giving her anything, even Dale, she would have done it without hesitating. Gadget's mind was running in circles. Something was broken. She wanted to fix it, so desperately. But she knew she couldn't. All she felt was a nauseated, horrible wish It Had Never Happened.

Monty was next to her.

"C'mon, love," he said tenderly. "Lemme take ya 'ome."

Gadget went silent, and slowly stood up. For the first time, she really saw how badly cut up Monterey was. "You can't fly," she said calmly. "I'll drive."

"Gadget," Foxglove said softly, "Gadget, you're not okay either."

"No," Gadget agreed. She shook off Foxglove's touch. "But I'm on line. Let's go."

She didn't look behind herself to see the other three stare at one another, stunned.

SRV _Albacore, _ 0450 GMT (2350 EST)

"According to the email we received," Mister Calvert said, "Admiral Feldmows wants to talk with the designer by phone."

He was talking to four small animals, each wearing life jackets and carrying an LED flashlight. They were all nocturnal, wearing red goggles to force their eyes to dark adapt. They were not quite surfaced, but close enough to get the surface chop. It wouldn't be easy to climb around on the deck of a submarine tonight.

"Of course, it may be a trick to get us to surface at a known time. You'll be maintaining a lookout. Assume anything in the air that isn't a Human plane is hostile. Use the safety cables."

The door to the deck opened and the four lookouts walked out. Mister Calvert sighed. This would be risky.

"Are you ready for the call?" Chip asked, sitting down at Jürgen's workstation.

The two tiny desks were set up so they faced one another, an arrangement Widget and Jürgen had settled on for the sake of symmetry and to fill up he space under their bunk. Widget and Jürgen had found an unexpected bonus: the arrangement put them in kissing range. Looking over to Chip's face where she was so used to seeing Jürgen, Widget had to fight a memory -- the memory of the first man who had offered her more than a few minutes of sensation, whom she had killed.

But Widget recognized that as a sign of stress and fatigue, like the hideous certainty that washed over her periodically; the unshakable belief she would never see Jürgen again. There was even a name for it; "The Midwatch Blues." She knew she had to ignore it to keep working, so she nodded politely and waited.

Chip had caught a nap here and there today, and he suddenly realized Widget had not. She had been awake since they left Staten City, and it was starting to show. She was a mess, and it was worse because she obviously didn't know it.

"You should really take a little nap before Admiral Feldmows calls. I'll wake you up," Chip offered.

"I'm okay," she lied. "What do you think about the email I showed you?"

Chip had barely thought about it; Widget had been very casual when she let him read it, and immediately thereafter things started happening. "I don't like snap judgments. What do you think?"

Widget looked up at the bunk over them. "I find it hard to credit. But..."

"But you're playing for high stakes?"

"Exactly."

"Let's pretend for a moment the email's legitimate," Chip suggested. "What does it imply?"

"Well," Widget started, "First of all, if my grandfather really wants to get rid of his daughter's mongrels, then he's after Gimcrack and Gadget. Not me."

"Right," Chip agreed. "Because --" he cut himself short. It was a sensitive thing to bring up.

Widget grinned. "Because yours truly isn't wading in the gene pool ever again." Despite the smile, there was a touch of sorrow in her voice. "Gadget has my problem, too. A baby would be a very big risk for her. Gimcrack's the bigger potential threat to the purity of the Catbane line, a decade or two down the road."

"So you think he might be engineering a situation where he has to sink _Albacore_ -- with Gimcrack aboard."

Widget went silent. "It's possible," she admitted finally.

"Why the conspiracy?" Chip asked. "It seems too complicated."

"Because he's the Mayor. Not Supreme God-King. He needs to make it all look legitimate. I don't believe Feldmows would be in on it, not for a second. Feldmows and his navy are victims, too."

"Why the rush? He's got almost twenty years before Gimcrack could sire a baby."

"He's an old man."

This wasn't good at all. Widget was coming up with answers too quickly. She had thought about this, long and hard.

"Gadget's a more immediate threat than Gimcrack," Chip pointed out. "And he hasn't done anything about her."

"That we know of. She has a dangerous profession."

"That sounds paranoid."

She looked at him and smiled. "You're right. It is silly. He's got your group split and distracted; assuming he doesn't know about the leak he should act now."

Despite himself, Chip felt a slight tremor. "Do you believe it?" he asked. If she did, right or wrong, it ruined any possibility of a peaceful resolution.

"I believe I have to plan for it." She looked at him solemnly. "And you'd be wise to do the same."

"If you're wrong," he reminded her gently, "and you act on it, Jürgen could be in a lot of trouble."

That, he could tell, hurt her. It was another thing she had thought about, long and hard.

"If you were Jürgen, and Gimcrack were your baby, what would you say?" she asked.

Chip caught his breath. He hadn't expected that, although he should have. "I'd say take _Albacore_ to the Pacific, and never come back," he admitted. "But if I were you, I wouldn't consider it. It's so hard to find someone you love, Widget. Love is worth a risk."

It was just too absurd, coming from him. "Look who's talking," she snorted.

"What -- what do you mean?" he asked, hoping he misunderstood.

"I mean that you're so obviously in love with my sister there's two people who don't know it. Gadget and Gimcrack, and between you and me I think Gimcrack suspects."

There was a long silence after this.

"Even if it's true -- and I'm not saying it is -- it doesn't matter," Chip said slowly. "Gadget doesn't know I exist. Romantically speaking."

"Wrong. She's blocking it; maybe because of the mixed-species thing, I don't know, but there's something there."

"That's not the issue."

"It's not?" Widget was surprised by that.

There was another reason it was a Bad Idea, one he couldn't admit to Dale. "Widget, she's way above my level. Maybe you didn't notice this, but she's really smart."

Widget scratched her chin thoughtfully. "After you figured out which part of the Falcon's tests were forged, I made myself this little promise. I'd never try to deceive you. Do you know why?"

Chip looked surprised and a little flattered. "Gratitude? Ethics? Am I getting warm?"

Widget didn't smile. "Because I don't think I can stop a freight train with one hand, and I don't think I can fool you." She folded her arms and pink eyes met his own. "You're one smart cookie, Chip."

The phone rang, and Widget hit the speakerphone button. "Widget Hackwrench here," she said. "Chip's with me."

"Widget? This is Gadget."

"Hi, Gadget," Chip smiled. It was good to hear her, even over a tinny speaker. Unfortunately, he couldn't take much pleasure in it. "This is kind of a bad time to --"

"It's okay," Widget interrupted. "We've got call waiting; when Feldmows phones we can take it." A bigger concern was HFDF -- the Staten City Navy might try to find them by homing in on their radio transmissions to the Iridium constellation.

"Uhm, Chip?" Gadget asked. "I'm calling from a phone booth, so it's private."

"Do you want me to leave?" Widget asked.

"No, no ... you can stay. Chip, we traced Deep Stoat to the police station. We were attacked by a porcupine."

"Was anyone hurt?" Chip demanded. His face was tense.

"Uhm. I'm okay, Zipper lost a wing but it'll grow back in a few days, Foxglove's okay too. Monty got hurt, but I stitched him up and we're taking him to Dr. Skinner tomorrow, just to make sure. I think he'll be fine."

"Do you know why he attacked you?" Chip asked.

"I ... think he was after me. I don't know why."

"I do," Widget mumbled. Chip could barely hear her. His heart sank.

"What did you say?" Gadget asked.

"I said with Monty hurt, I'd hate to see the other guy," Widget joked weakly.

There was a long pause, and a second call tried to come in.

"Feldmows?" Widget asked shortly.

"Widget?" Feldmows asked.

"Admiral, I have another call. I'll get him off the line."

"Thank you."

The albino mouse stared blankly at the chipmunk. "Well, he's gone after Gadget."

Chip was lost in thought.

"Gadget," he finally said. "Can you interrogate him?"

"Uh. No."

"So he got away?"

"N -- no. Chip, I think I had better go."

That probably meant she had released him. It was hard to read voices over the phone, especially with a speaker this small. Still, something bothered Chip. "Gadget, take care of yourself, all right? I miss you."

"I miss you too. Goodbye."

Widget flicked over to Feldmows. "Hello, Admiral."

"Hello, Widget. Jürgen is okay, and he says he loves you, and he asked you to have some crab legs for him."

Chip's mouth went dry. He remembered Jürgen raving about the crab legs in a mouse restaurant in San Francisco. He was telling her to run to the Pacific.

"Thank you," Widget replied. "Tell him ... I've made reservations for two."

"I will," Feldmows promised.

"Please tell Captain Murry's family we didn't intentionally take him prisoner. He was in the water and unconscious, and Chip saved his life. Murry's in good health."

"They'll be glad to hear that. Did you forward the email from his family, and will you let him send replies?"

"When my husband can write to his family, I'll be glad to," Widget said steadily.

Chip sighed. It had started well, but he could see it was about to turn into an argument.

"We're concerned you might use that to send encoded messages," Feldmows replied.

"Coded messages?" Widget scoffed. "Do you really think I've set up a method of sending coded messages with my own husband?"

Chip coughed. "Excuse me," he said politely. "I think it might be more profitable to reach an understanding and then exchange your prisoners."

"I agree," Feldmows said.

"No," Widget disagreed. "Admiral, is my husband under your jurisdiction as a POW or is he being held in a civilian prison?"

"Civilian prison," Feldmows answered briefly.

"Then why am I talking to you?"

Chip bit his tongue to keep from screaming at her.

"Widget, I have an unprovoked attack on a passenger liner to explain."

"I did not attack that passenger liner!"

"Admiral, I don't believe she did," Chip interjected. The last thing they needed was for either of them to be convinced this was Widget against Staten City instead of both of them against a mystery --

Two sharp blasts on a Klaxon, and the deck began to tilt forward.

"What th --" Widget got to her feet and ran to the bridge.

Chip realized they were about to lose the telephone link. "Admiral, we're diving. I don't know why."

"Chip, are you sure --"

Feldmows' voice was cut off, instantly. There was no blast of static; Chip didn't know if it was a digital link, or if power to communications had been cut. And it didn't matter -- the conversation with Feldmows had been shut off, and with it, perhaps their best shot at calming things down. Chip shook his head, angry, and went to the bridge.

In addition to the usual bridge crew, there were four small animals wearing life jackets and black raincoats. One of them was Andy. They were holding themselves upright by clinging to handles; Chip grabbed one and looked at Andy inquiringly. They were diving, like before during the torpedo drill (had that been less than nine hours ago? Extraordinary!) but with an odd urgency about it; as though they all knew this was not a drill and were somehow communicating their fear to the ship herself.

"Aircraft," Andy explained quietly. "Peregrine, flying without lights, heading in our direction."

"Who saw it?" Chip asked.

"I did."

"I'll never make a joke about 'blind as a mole' again," Chip said wryly. Andy's laugh was a little strained. Chip knew very well that moles had excellent night vision.

"No contact," Mr Fenton said from his rig on the ceiling. "No torpedoes, no surface ships."

"Oh, they're coming," Widget hissed. "Peregrine with onboard HFDF -- it might even be unarmed. Mister Misch, level off at one hundred. Mrs. Shapiro, come to one-three-five and give me flank speed for three minutes."

Mrs. Shapiro looked hesitant. "Only three minutes, ma'am?"

"Yes." Widget smiled. "They want to throw a surprise party, but they're going to be getting the presents."

There was a moment of shocked silence around the bridge. For an instant, Chip thought they were going to have a mutiny on their hands.

But then Mr. Calvert started to applaud, and soon the whole bridge was cheering and clapping. And Chip realized for the first time, how angry, how insulted the people aboard were; how furious that their captain had been taken from them and their designer almost captured.

And Chip stood alone, horrified, knowing that some ships would die tonight, and knowing he was the only one on the bridge who thought this was bad.

December 15: Ranger Tree, 0150 EST (0650 GMT)

After several hours fighting adrenaline and dreading nightmares, Gadget had finally resorted to drugs. She didn't want sleep; she wanted unconsciousness. So, she was more angry than frightened when she was aware there was someone in the room.

"Who's there?" she tried to demand, but her voice cracked making her sound more afraid than she was. She turned a switch and a white LED flashed on.

The intruder stood in the middle of the room, a sardonic smile playing around her lips. Gadget gasped. Gadget knew her, but at the same time, she didn't. Remarkably, it drove out all thought of the events earlier that night.

The apparition wore gray pants and a blue short sleeved shirt, exposing her stainless steel left arm. She wore black boots, which were louder on the floor than bare pads and had woken Gadget. Her hair was tied into a bun and had gone snow white with age, matching her fur. Some of her flesh had been melted away by the years, a patch covered her right eye and an ugly scar ran under it. But the remaining, pink eye was as bright and alert as ever, and maybe warmer.

The vision shook her head sadly. "You're so young," she said.

"Widget?" Gadget asked, confused. "You're so old."

Widget sniffed. "I wouldn't call fifty-eight old, really."

Gadget laughed. "I must be dreaming."

"Oh, yes," the intruder agreed amiably. "The question is what caused the dream? I could be your subconscious reflecting an aspect of your personality you prefer to project onto your sister, or I could be an angel adopting a disguise you're more likely to accept, or synapses in your brain are being fired in a controlled pattern by electrons sent into the past by a quantum tunneling effect. Take your pick."

"Quantum tunnels don't go through time," Gadget immediately objected.

"No," the Widget-like apparition agreed. "Unless you think of an electron as a standing wave with a most probable past and postulate the ability to generate them to specification in a large linear accelerator."

Gadget grinned. "Which would require an enormous linear accelerator, and ludicrous amounts of computer power."

"Well, my little boy isn't _entirely_ without influence," the intruder said with obvious pride. She sat and a chair materialized under her. "But enough of this cosmological chit chat. I'll bet you're hungry." She took a covered plate from behind her and handed it to Gadget with a flourish. Curiously, Gadget lifted the lid and gasped. Pancakes.

"They have little faces on them," Gadget said, marveling. "Like Daddy used to make when I was little."

"Did he?" Widget asked, leaning forward to see.

"You should know. You created them," Gadget said suspiciously.

"No, I triggered your memory of them," Widget corrected.

Gadget started eating. "Want some?"

"No thanks; this is your dream, not mine. I couldn't taste them. Tuck in."

"Thank you. I never thought I'd see you wearing a short-sleeved shirt."

Widget glanced down at her stainless steel arm. "I got over that years ago," she dismissed.

"What happened to your eye?"

Widget shrugged. "No need to go into details. This is probably more important." She crossed her right leg and tapped the boot. "Arch supports. My feet went flat about fifteen years ago. You and I spend a lot of time plantigrade. They're uncomfortable, but you should start wearing them around the tree. It'll save you some discomfort when you're my age."

"Doctor Skinner's been talking about getting me a set," Gadget admitted. She pushed the pancakes away. "So, if you're time travelling, why don't you go back a little further and keep ... that from happening?"

Widget shrugged. "We can only do dreams. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Don't ice up, Gadget."

Gadget stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"You know very well what I mean, girl." For the first time, Widget actually sounded angry. "You can't stand the hurt so you'll make yourself numb. It works, for a while. But it's a bad habit to get into. You tell yourself you're growing up, when you're really turning into something twisted and unnatural." Widget frowned. "Monty's worried sick about you right now. He's seen friends ice up before. He can't sleep. He's telling himself it's his fault, that --"

"It's not his fault. That's ridiculous," Gadget scoffed.

"Yes. So?" She leaned forward a little, and continued in a different tone. "Gadget, you helped pull me out of the mouth of hell. Don't climb in yourself."

The pancakes finished, Gadget lay back in bed and addressed the ceiling. "That gives me only one choice."

"Several, but which did you have in mind?" Widget asked casually.

"Leaving. Going to Ultra-Flight."

Widget was silent. "You save a lot of lives here. You know that."

"Widget, I heard that porcupine hit the pavement. I don't want to hear that crunch again."

"So you prefer the sharp 'boom' of an exploding aircraft?"

Gadget looked at her sharply. "I didn't deserve that."

"It wasn't a comment on the way you work, not really." Widget shook her head impatiently. She took her sister's hands. The palm of her left hand had a thin layer of rubber to improve her grip. "Gadget, you and I are artists, with a long and proud heritage. We're engineers. If there's anything in this world more elaborate than two rocks standing on top of one another, it's because one of us was there. We make order from chaos using our minds and those who came before us. As engineers, we stand between what is and can be. It's a proud calling, but it's a dangerous place to be. With the Rangers, you are even more than that."

"So what do I stand between as a Ranger?" Gadget asked flippantly.

"What is and what should be. We really can be better than the world, Gadget. The five of you taught me that."

Gadget's eyes were swimming with tears. Widget pulled her up and kissed her, once, on the forehead.

"Widget, It's just -- I -- it hurts."

"And it will hurt for a while. Shouldn't it? You'll get over it, but you won't forget."

"That's not very comforting," Gadget muttered.

"Gadget, it's a terrible thing that happened. But you didn't do it deliberately or with malice, and maybe you even saved Monty's life." Widget sighed. "You made a mistake. Learn and move on. Anything else is cowardice."

"Point taken."

Widget looked away for a moment, and sighed in disgust. "Crud, it's the Feds."

A tall, middle-aged mouse in a suit jacket shimmered in through the wall. "You didn't turn this thing on, did you?"

"I helped build it," Widget snorted.

"They didn't give Teller a hydrogen bomb."

"And that," Widget sniffed with great dignity, "is a gross injustice."

"Yeah, right." He looked around. "Where's the recording?"

"Who are you," Gadget finally demanded, holding her covers up under her chin, "and what are you doing in my bedroom?"

He blinked at Gadget. "You can hear me?"

"There isn't a recording. This is a live interactive," Widget said casually.

He turned dark and angry eyes at her. "Darnit, Mom!" he yelled.

"Don't you 'darnit, Mom' me," she snapped back. "It's in the test budget. Sort of. If you squint. And ignore a zero."

"But you're changing histo --" he started. Suddenly, he froze. "Uhm, Aunt Gadget?" he said with a smile. "This is just a really weird dream. Honest."

"Okay," Gadget agreed.

Widget sighed. "Gotta go, sis. Or Mister I-Know-Better-Than-My- Mother will embarrass me in front of you." She fixed him with a scathing glare. "Again."

"I was four years old, Mom," Gimcrack said through clenched teeth.

Gadget cleared her throat. "Uh, Widget? Before you go ... you didn't really say anything I didn't know already."

"Yes," Widget agreed.

"Then why did you come?"

"Because I love you and I don't want you to spend the worst night of your life alone." Her voice was very casual and steady. They kissed quickly. "See you in a few. Two things. Don't ice up --"

"-- And arch supports," Gadget nodded.

The two walked to the wall. "'It's just a dream, Aunt Gadget,'" Widget mocked. "How did you get elected if that's the best lie you could come up with?"

"Maybe because people trust me?"

"So when are you telling them you're a mouse?"

"I never said I _wasn't_ a mouse --"

Gadget slowly shook her head. Beyond any doubt, that was the second strangest dream she had ever had.

SRV _Albacore,_ 0710 GMT (0210 EST)

Widget sipped coffee from a thimble painted with the slogan "World's Most Byronic Mouse" and took a bite from a Honey-Nut Cheerio. By eating breakfast, she was hoping to convert to Greenwich time more easily. It seemed to be working.

_Albacore_ was running long, lazy circles, hunting with passive sonar, running silent to distract Mister Fenton as little as possible. Occasionally, she drifted to within a few feet of the surface to let Miss Freiheit search the electromagnetic spectrum with HFDF. Widget gulped her coffee, hoping to finish before the boat was in the surface turbulence.

Chip came to the bridge. He was about to say something, but Widget interrupted.

"Good morning, Chip," she said cheerfully. "We'll need to make arrangements to take you back home. I don't think we can land you on Staten Island and I'd rather avoid the chokepoints around Manhattan --"

"Ma'am," Miss Freiheit interrupted. "I have a contact, bearing zero two seven."

"Mrs. Shapiro, rudder amidships. Mister Misch, hold depth steady. Miss Freiheit?"

Miss Freiheit hesitated. "Search radar, wavelength three point eight centimeters. From the sidelobes, I think it's a Yagi antenna."

Widget's grin was feral. "It wouldn't be rotating at, say, two hundred degrees a second, would it?"

Miss Freiheit's grin was almost as feral. "Yes ma'am, and it's got a PRF of eight."

"Which means what?" Chip asked, rudely, but he was afraid he knew the answer.

Widget looked at him silently for a moment, and glanced back at Miss Freiheit. "Calculate course and speed." She answered Chip's question. "It's the _Mahan._ she's supporting a hunter-killer group."

"Ma'am," Mister Calvert said gently, "It's _Mahan,_ all right, but they couldn't detect our periscope with a thirty eight millimeter radar."

Pink eyes regarded him. "They could detect us on the surface."

"They wouldn't break radio silence on the off chance of spotting us on the surface," Calvert objected.

"Unless they thought we weren't expecting an attack."

"Ma'am," Miss Freiheit broke in. "They're running at twenty-eight knots, course two one zero, absolute bearing forty-six degrees, range twelve and a half nautical miles."

"Mrs. Shapiro, set course one hundred twenty, full speed."

Chip wasn't sure if that was towards the _Mahan_ or away from it; but he doubted Widget would be smiling quite that way if she was putting them on an evasion course. "Widget," he said quietly, "What are you going to do?"

Widget looked at the half eaten Cheerio in her right hand. "You know," she said conversationally, "I think honey-nut is just about my favorite flavor."

She took another bite and faced him squarely, chewing slowly. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

"At given course and speed," Mister Norton said, "We will be at the interception point in ten minutes. The _Mahan_ will be there in twenty-six minutes."

"C'mon, Dale. Wake up."

Dale was not a hair trigger, two-fisted adventurer, but Chip's tones, so low and urgent, woke him faster than an alarm bell.

Dale rubbed his eyes. The Nimnul generator was loud, and the boat was rocking. They were close to the surface, and running fast.

"What is it?" Dale asked.

"We're going to take over the bridge," Chip said quietly.

Ranger Tree, 0215 EST (0715 GMT)

"Monty?" came a soft voice from the door to the kitchen.

"Gadget-love?" Monty replied.

Gadget came into the kitchen, wearing a pair of striped pajamas which were too big for her. She had gotten rid of the purple nightgown after Dale had accidentally hit it with a stink bomb. "What are you doing?"

"Oh." Monty looked down at the bowl he was mixing. "Jest whippin' up somethin' bad for me."

"Got enough for two?" Gadget smiled and sat down.

Monterey grinned. "You bet. Hope you like Waldorf Salad with plenty of cheese and no carrots."

"Monty," Gadget began, and hesitated. "Going up against someone bigger than you, you couldn't tackle or punch, that was about the bravest thing I've ever seen someone do."

"Well," he shrugged and patted his belly. "I got all this natural armor, you know."

Gadget laughed. "Monty, we need to talk about what we do next."

"Agreed. We need to choose sides."

"I already did," Gadget shook her head. "Truth and justice."

"Ah. And what if that means stopping your sister?"

Gadget hesitated. "I hope it won't come to that."

"Remember Cassie. Defenseless mouse threatened by someone who loves 'im. It could be you."

"Cassie's prophesies come true," Gadget said.

"Almost invariably."

"No matter what you do."

"Yes."

"Then they're irrelevant." Gadget folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. "I think this is a horrible misunderstanding, escalating rapidly out of control. And we need to stop it."

"Follow Chip's lead about the airplane?"

"No. Not yet. Widget's not fighting over who torpedoed _Lucy Tania_ and why."

Monty froze. "Risky."

"And crazy," Gadget agreed.

"Nigh-suicidal," Monty elaborated.

"Are you saying no?" Gadget asked.

Monty grinned. "Love, I wouldn't miss this for the world." He held out a spoon for Gadget to taste. "More mayonnaise?" he asked.

"I don't think so. It's perfect."

He ladled out a generous portion for her. She stirred it with a spoon, and looked thoughtful.

"Monty, I didn't mean for ... that to happen."

Monterey put his bowl down. "It was an accident, I know." He took her hands.

"I just didn't follow it through. I just didn't think."

Monterey wordlessly pulled her onto his lap, tucked her chin onto his shoulder, and held her gently when the tears came.

SRV _Albacore,_ 0715 GMT (0215 EST)

Dale was pacing nervously while Chip lay in his bunk and flipped through his notes. Dale was positive he wasn't reading them; he was simply faking calm.

"We have to get going," Dale finally said. He made a few practice lunges with his pin.

"We'll only be able to hold the bridge for a few minutes, at most. If we go too soon, they'll be able to sink _Mahan_ after they get control of the sub back."

"What'll keep them from chasing _Mahan_ anyway?"

"Relative speeds. _Mahan_ is faster than us. We can't catch up to them."

"Chip, didn't you say Widget was in the right?"

"In general terms, yes. But Catbane isn't about to sink a battleship with almost a thousand crew aboard."

"Widget won't like this," Dale observed.

"She won't kill us."

"You sure?"

Chip looked up at him. "Yes, Dale," he said quietly. "We might get roughed up, but I'm sure. Aren't you?"

Dale hesitated. "Yes," he finally agreed, reluctantly.

The SILENT light came on. The number on the depth gauge on the wall began to increase.

"That's it," Chip said. "The _Mahan_ must be coming ..."

Chip trailed off. Dale was waiting impatiently at the door.

Suddenly Chip began flipping two sheets of paper in the notebook, looking at one page, than the other. His eyes grew wide.

"What is it?" Dale asked.

Chip rolled out of his bunk, clutching his notes. "Stay here," he ordered. "Don't come after me, no matter what."

He shoved past Dale, and raced towards the bridge.

"A fox won't penetrate _Mahan's_ bow," Widget was saying to Mister Calvert. "The slope will deflect them. I designed her so we could blow off the entire forecastle without doing anything more than slowing her down." Calvert was dubious about this affair; he doubted the _Mahan_ was chasing down a contact. If Andy's Peregrine had picked them up on HFDF, then a squadron of aircraft should have followed it in. Still, he would do his honest best to follow his commander's instructions.

"Then we want to hit the flat sides," Mister Calvert said.

"Normally, yes. But that's where Jürgen attacked, so they'll have their hydrofoils patrolling there." Widget shook her head. "No, we match courses, dive below the thermocline, let _Mahan_ run over us, go to periscope depth and hit her in the stern with six foxes. That'll crack open her Nimnul generator and leave her dead in the water."

"Then we can break off, reload, and polish her off."

"Exactly."

Chip dashed onto the bridge. Widget looked up at him, blinking.

"Widget," he gasped, "we have to talk."

Widget stared at him for several moments.

"Now?" she finally asked.

"Right away."

"Okay," she said. They had almost ten minutes before _Mahan_ would be overhead.

"Alone," Chip insisted.

Widget sighed. "Chip, this is a very bad time --"

"It's important."

She was starting to get angry. Chip would have backed off if he weren't already angrier. "So is this. Why should I leave the bridge just as we're --"

"Chief Barra to bridge, and please bring a weapon," Mister Calvert said into a microphone, just in case.

Chip inhaled. "Widget, you will come with me because you owe me one. I kept you from killing your sister. I haven't called you on that. But I'm doing it now."

Widget exhaled, slowly.

"Mister Calvert," she said finally, "You will proceed with the attack unless I tell you otherwise, in person." She jerked her head towards her cabin door. "In there?" she asked.

"Port torpedo room," Chip corrected.

Chief Barra came onto the bridge, holding a short, nasty-looking club. Widget looked over to him. "Chief Barra," she said, "you will confirm the starboard torpedo room has no unauthorized personnel and will then guard the door during the attack."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with a nod.

"Let's go," Widget snapped at Chip. "This had better not take much time."

Von Kugleblitz looked up as Chip and Widget came in. "Please step out," Chip asked. "Widget and I need to talk."

"It's okay," Widget confirmed. Once von Kugleblitz was out, she looked at Chip and crossed her arms. She was fairly confident she could take Chip in a fight, and she knew she could fire the torpedoes. And even if she couldn't, three foxes would easily crack the _Mahan's_ Nimnul reactor.

"I don't have much time," she said.

Chip pointed at the hatches leading to the torpedo tubes. "Those are almost always kept closed, right?"

"Right. If we run into something and crush the outer doors, the inner door keeps the room from flooding."

"How many torpedoes in this room?" Chip asked.

She looked and counted, to be polite. "Eleven."

"I see eight."

"The other three are in the tubes," she said, gesturing to three lit panels. They read:

W A R S H O T L O A D E D

TUBE 1 TUBE 2 TUBE 3

Chip pried off the panel that read "TUBE 1." He took the gum out of his mouth and stuck it over the LED. He snapped the panel back into place. It looked like the panel was unlit.

"Cute," Widget agreed lazily. "It's possible to sabotage a display."

Chip looked for von Kugleblitz' maintenance log. "Here," he said, shoving it into her hands.

"Chip, what is --"

Chip spoke slowly, cutting her off. "According to that log, there were twelve torpedoes in storage in this room before the _Lucy Tania_ was hit."

What little color there was in Widget's face drained out, as she stared at the list. She counted the different serial numbers, and counted again. Her hand was shaking, and she muttered the numbers out loud. She gritted her teeth, slammed the list down, and went out the door.

"You may resume your post," she said curtly to von Kugleblitz.

Chip followed her. "Widget --" he started.

She slammed the door to the bridge open. "Range to _Mahan? _" she asked.

"Twenty-eight hundred yards and closing," Mr. Fenton replied immediately, his chair facing the back of the bridge.

"Mister Calvert, connect tube four. Set forward gyro angle to one eighty."

Chip slammed his hat to the floor. "_Widget! _" he yelled.

Everyone on the bridge looked at him, shocked.

"It's a decoy," Widget said mildly. "They'll think it's us, and we'll see if they attack it."

Chip felt a blush of embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Forget it. I owe you two, now," she dismissed.

"Tube four ready," Mister Calvert said.

"Wait," Chip suddenly interrupted. "Given the situation, it's probably unwise to launch any torpedoes."

"Yes," Widget agreed. "Mister Norton, how deep is the water here?"

"Eight hundred feet."

"Mister Misch, take us to seven hundred fifty feet. Mister Calvert, I am giving command over to you. Maintain our present position. In two hours, secure from silent running. If our company looks like they're caught a whiff, call me to the bridge." Widget looked at Chip. "Please get Dale and meet me in my quarters. We have to discuss this."

"Yes, ma'am," Chip said, relief flooding him.

As he turned to leave the bridge, he thought he caught a smile and a relieved wink from Mister Calvert. Above them, the _Mahan_ sailed on, and never realized how close it had come to disaster.

"So let me see if I understand," Dale said thoughtfully. "Someone loaded an extra torpedo, and hid it in the torpedo tube, so that when you were pretending to launch a torpedo, you really were."

"Exactly," Widget agreed.

"How did he know which one to hide it in?" Chip asked.

"We always use Tube 1 for no-fire drills," she said sadly. She leaned against the wall and slid slowly down until she was sitting on the floor. Dale sat next to her and put an arm around her.

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "This means that someone in your crew --"

"I know." Widget closed her eyes and sighed. There wasn't a person aboard she wouldn't trust with her life, and now this.

It was strange, but she didn't feel angry. Just deflated, and exhausted. It felt good to close her eyes and feel Dale's arm around her. She would just rest for a moment. Only a moment. She had too much to do.

"So the next step is to figure out who," Chip said, pacing. "We need to determine how the torpedo got aboard, and how it was concealed. Obviously, it had to be someone who could count on being in the port torpedo room alone from time to time. But more than that, we need to know why. It's possible the culprit was just a tool in the hands of --"

Chip stopped short. Widget was leaning against Dale, her eyes closed and lips slightly parted. She was breathing deeply and regularly.

"I think we can finish this up later," Dale said softly.

"I guess we have to," Chip agreed sourly. He had never had someone doze off at the climax of an investigation before.

"Could you get me a few of my comics?"

5th Pct, Manhattan, 0312 EST (0812 GMT)

Fat Cat turned off the Mouse News website with a chuckle. "Ah, Mole," he purred. "The Dis-information Superhighway is a grand and glorious thing. A few emails, delicately formed to promote paranoia, a few pebbles to start the avalanche, and a relatively trivial incident turns into a war."

Mole nodded with a grin, not that he entirely understood.

"Come, Mole," the cat said with a smile. "Prickles is not responding to his pager. We must see if he has rolled his pebble, and rid me of a small thorn in the rosebush of annoyance." He paused to contemplate the brilliant and elegant mastermind in his mirror, and to savor the sublime status of his simile.

"Okay, boss," Mole agreed.

Fat Cat sighed. If only he had an audience worthy of him. This might change, if all went well. The thought added dazzle to an already blinding smile.

Mole found Prickles. This being entirely outside his experience, he quickly brought it to the attention of Fat Cat, who gritted his teeth for a full eight seconds. "It seems our friend has met with ... limited success," he finally spat.

"Does this mean the plan's ruined, boss?" Mole asked.

The cat dashed forward and carefully rolled the porcupine over. Disappointment was etched on his face. "I had hoped he had landed on her," Fat Cat complained. Then, he brightened. "Well, everything may still be all right, friend Mole," he said, patting Mole's head warmly. "A sister surviving to tell of her terrible ordeal might be nearly as provocative as one reduced to mute testimony by medical circumstances."

The coat had been knocked off by Fat Cat's rolling the body. He didn't bother to replace it. "It would have been nice if the Ranger had been killed, but this is probably as good."

Fat Cat had noticed Mole's discomfort -- doubtless caused by the apparent failure of Fat cat's plan -- and in an unusual gesture for him, was trying to cheer him. Mole's thoughts, if wordless sensations could be called thoughts, were elsewhere.

Mole had recognized the coat. He was unable to express himself, but the fact that their enemies had performed this simple decency while Fat Cat had casually stripped it away troubled him like a cold wind. Mole had never liked Prickles, and he couldn't shed a tear for him, but a death like this -- left in the gutter, shrouded by the mice he had been trying to kill -- nobody should have a death like that. And even though Fat Cat was trying to cheer him up, Mole knew, better than he knew his own name, that if it had been Mole in the gutter, Fat Cat would have behaved the same way.

Mole wasn't clever enough to put it into words, but he knew there was something terribly, terribly wrong here.

Ranger Tree, 0728 EST (1228 GMT)

Monty stood in the lower part of the tree -- the "garage" -- with a broad smile. Zipper rode on his shoulder, and buzzed questioningly.

"It ain't what I see," Monty explained, "it's what I don't see. Ovah there." He pointed at two long, steel cylinders against the wall. "Those," Monty said happily, "are the fuel and oxidizer tanks from the Ranger Rocket Mark V. She's dismantled them. It means she's given up the idea."

Zipper looked doubtful. A tootling noise came from outside.

Monty carried Zipper out the door, and was surprised to see Gadget had whipped up a new vehicle. It was big -- almost three feet long, and cylindrical. It was riding no fewer than sixteen large balloon tires. Zipper immediately noticed it resembled the drill vehicle from the film _Armageddon_ -- but he refrained from drawing attention to this, because of Foxy's sensibilities.

A sturdy hatch opened near the nose of the long, slender fuselage. Foxglove waved at them, beaming. "Welcome aboard the MoDoLaLaPlat!" she cried out.

"What's a MoDoLaLaPlat?" Monty asked as he went in.

The passenger compartment was small, surprisingly so for a vehicle this big. There were five rodent-sized seats, with high backs, headrests, and elaborate safety harness. Monty slid into his seat with a sigh. Very comfortable -- he liked it already. Gadget had probably scrounged the seats from the Ranger Rocket.

"Well actually," Gadget said, "It's kind of an abbreviation."

"Oh," Monty nodded. Gadget released the clutch and the MoDoLaLaPlat started across the grass. The huge tires and elaborate suspension system gave it a very smooth ride. "What does it stand for, Gadget?"

"Mobile, obviously. We're going to drive under a commuter helicopter and use the Dorsal Latch to anchor onto it and hitch a ride to Staten Island."

"And the LaPlat?"

"If I told you," Gadget apologized, not turning around, "you'd probably try to leave, and we need you."

Monterey took this news with surprising calm.

Foxglove was counting, and recounting, the seats. Naturally, Gadget had designed it to carry the Rangers -- "Gadget, why five seats? Zipper doesn't need one this big."

Gadget looked around and barely missed a bicyclist. "It's yours, Foxy," she said, blinking.

The extra seat was for her.

Gadget thought of Foxglove as one of them. The realization sent emotions flowing through Foxglove's mind; the same mouse who was challenging her for Dale and risking her future happiness had accepted her.

Foxglove looked at the back of Gadget's head, anger, jealousy, and love flowing against one another like oil and water.

Staten City, Bentham Memorial Penitentiary, 0900 EST (1400 GMT)

"So you're his son?"

Karl nodded. "That's right. Karl Jürgen, and this is my friend, David Crustsnatcher."

Schultz looked down at his list, and made a notation. "You can go in, but I'm afraid your friend will have to wait here."

Karl looked at David. "Sorry."

"No problem," David said casually. He sat on one of the uncomfortable benches. In a way, he was relieved; he wasn't sure he wanted to see this anyway. Karl's relationship with his father could delicately be called "complex" and David knew his presence would restrain them. Which might be a good thing, of course, but he hadn't been looking forward to being a steadying influence.

Karl took the pass and was escorted through six gates, each of which locked behind him before the next was opened. For some reason, he had expected to descend into a Stygian abyss: to his surprise, his father's cell was up. Staten City's prison was above ground.

The only indication Karl had that he was in a prison was the escort, the occasional guard, and the heavy spring-loaded doors. Each one was sealed with a luggage padlock. They wouldn't be hard to open with a pick; but they were designed to simply slow a jailbreak down and not stop it. That would be done by the heavy gates and the guards. Someone was playing a harmonica. Badly. Someone else Karl couldn't see was evidently in need of dental work, as he was shouting for a better mouthpiece.

Strangely, the thing that he noticed most was a slow but definite breeze.

"This is a well-ventilated prison," he said to his escort, making conversation.

The rat grinned. "Yes. There was an escape from the old prison a few years ago. She pumped laughing gas into the air ducts. Nobody will pull that one again."

"She?" Karl asked curiously.

"Yeah -- albino girl, mouse, only had one arm. Sentenced to eighty-seven consecutive life terms. It would have been ninety, but she had a good lawyer."

"What crime did she commit?"

"She was a member of a criminal gang on the lower east side. She claimed all she did was housekeeping, but being a member of a criminal organization's illegal, regardless of what you do personally."

"I'm surprised she had access to the vents, let alone nitrous oxide."

"They had her working on the heater and air conditioning. They used the laughing gas for welding or something in the machine shop."

"Some housekeeper."

"Oh, she probably fibbed. Funny thing is, they've since ruled her conviction was illegal. Jurisdiction issue. Staten City can't police the whole world, after all." They turned to a hall with an outside window. It was the first sun Karl had seen since coming to Staten City. "Well, your father's in here."

The escort pulled open an unlocked door. In the audience room, there was a long table split in half by a wall of bars reinforced with a wire screen. The prisoners were on one side and the visitors on the other. Each pair was separated from the next by a thin acoustic panel, and a bored sentry overlooked it all.

"Karl," his father said with a polite nod.

"_Vater, _" Karl nodded back and sat down. He continued in German. "You're looking well."

"Thank you. So are you."

"How is it?"

"Well," Jürgen considered. "This is the third time for me, actually. I've got to say it's the most comfortable."

"Third time?" Karl asked with surprise. "I remember the clearing camp after the war, but --"

"I got into a little trouble during the war." His father shrugged and smiled. "It probably got me out of trouble _after_ the war, so I'm not complaining."

"You never told me."

"Well, we didn't have a lot of time together. I didn't want to scare you. Karl, there's something very important I want you to tell Widget."

Karl had expected that. After a few seconds of pleasantries, it was on to something more important than Karl. He struggled to hide his disappointment anyway.

"Tell her what?"

"Tell her that I am cheese in a trap," he said softly. "If she doesn't take _Albacore_ to the Pacific, I'll see to it the bait is destroyed."

Karl looked at his father for a long time. He pounded the desk once with an angry fist, earning a dirty look from the guard which Karl didn't notice. He looked back at his father and astonished both of them. He started to weep, silently.

"Hey, hey," his father said sternly. "What's all this?"

"How can you even consider that? And dad, how can you possibly ask me to tell her you're going to kill yourself?"

"In answer to your first question, there's something going on. Something that threatens her and Gimcrack. This whole torpedo story was faked, somehow. And secondly..." Jürgen bit his lip. "Karl, your brother is in danger. Do it for him."

Karl's littermates had died in infancy during a measles epidemic, and it actually took him a moment to realize his father was talking about Gimcrack. Karl sighed. "So that's it. You wouldn't stay home for Mom or me, but you'll die for her." Karl regretted it the instant he said it. It was too selfish, too personal, too true to say in front of this man he barely knew.

"Karl," Jürgen said slowly. "Karl, I've been a miserable excuse for a father to you --"

"Dad," Karl interrupted, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I didn't --"

"Karl, I deserve it."

"No you don't. It was spiteful of me. During the war you were serving, after the war you had to work --"

Jürgen shook his head, angrily. "Karl, I'd be lying if I told you that was the only reason. After the war I could have gotten a job on shore."

Karl was silent for a moment. "Why didn't you?" he asked, softly.

"Because it would have been on shore. Karl, this is something I know you won't understand. The blue water is my first and greatest love. I'm not complete when I'm away from it." Jürgen smiled gently. "The ocean is a calling. Even if there's a hurricane on the surface, a bit into its depths takes you to silence and tranquility. It's merciless, and at the same time creative and nurturing. It's unforgiving, but never malicious. And to me, it is the most beautiful, and mysterious, thing there is. A life spent with it is a good life. I don't want to die, but when I do I want to be in its arms."

Karl smiled suddenly. "Are you talking about the ocean or your wife?"

Jürgen laughed. "Very perceptive."

Karl grew serious. "Dad, I can't take your message to her."

"Why not?" Jürgen's expression was blank and grim. "I think you owe me at least that."

"It's a calculated risk." Karl's voice was dry. "You know how she'll react if you die while a prisoner. Do you want that to happen? Do you want it on her conscience?" Karl smiled. "I can't let you think suicide is a valid option. I owe you too much."

Jürgen sat for a moment, and a broad grin covered his features. "Check, and mate," he admitted.

"Your time's up, sir," said the guard.

"We have a lot to talk about, Karl. Thank you for coming." He touched his hand to the screen between them. Karl immediately put up his own.

"I'm glad I came." Karl smiled.

David left the waiting room to go to the euphemism. His timing was extremely bad, as he would have found the scene that followed most interesting.

First, the shift of the guard behind the admissions desk ended, and he was replaced. Next, two mice entered from the street.

The smaller of the two had an elaborate waxed Kaiser Wilhelm moustache which extended some distance beyond his shoulders, and wore a spiked helmet and long field gray jacket. A monocle on one eye and a patch on the other hinted at a turbulent career, further attested to by an impressive row of medals which a canny observer would recognize as given by the wrong side. He goose-stepped to the desk, came stiffly to attention, clicked his heels and saluted the guard.

The other visitor, taller and rotund, presented a much less martial figure in green lederhosen and Alpine hat with a sprig of edelweiss. He carried an alpenstock loosely in one hand.

"Ve are hier, mein vater to wisit," said the first in parade- ground tones. "Feldunteroffizier Karl Jürgen. Mein papers!" He handed a Manila envelope over to the guard, who was slightly taken aback.

"Ich bin Muenster von Kublewagen-Nebelwerfer, der family solicitor," explained his Falstaffian -- nay, Goeringesque -- companion.

"Okay," the guard said slowly, eyeing them dubiously. "You'll have to check the pick and the spiked helmet here." They might, after all, be offensive weapons, and the guard prided himself on being cautious and observant.

Jürgen had not made it back to his cell before he was taken back. He had absolutely no idea why his son would be allowed to visit twice in a row; perhaps they had taken him away too early the first time. To his surprise, he was taken to the private audience chamber where prisoners were allowed to talk to their lawyers, which was next to the visiting room where he had met Karl. Unlike the visiting room, this room had no screen between the prisoners and visitors. When he saw who was waiting there, his face went blank with astonishment as he fought back an entirely inappropriate attack of the giggles.

"Guten Tag, Vater," Gadget said.

"Heh, heh," Jürgen said, hoping it could be passed off as happiness at seeing his "son."

"Vill you not me alone with client mine be leaving?" Monterey asked the guard, completely ruining his German syntax.

"Sorry, sir," the escort said gruffly. "We have special orders -- "

A slender, orange-yellow cord tightened around the guard's throat as Gadget lept up on him from behind. His cry for help choked by the garrote, he was easy prey for a swift, skillful haymaker from Monterey which sent him into unconsciousness. He was perhaps the first guard at this prison to be attacked with a fake moustache.

Jürgen's first words were from the heart, as he looked sadly at Gadget's buzzcut. "Oh, Gadget," he sighed. "I'm so sorry about your hair."

Gadget pulled off a wig and her long hair cascaded down to her waist. "Don't be."

Jürgen blinked. "How did you get all that to fit --"

"You know how Chip's ears move further apart when he puts his hat on?"

"Yes..."

"Same thing." She patted his arm. "Let's get you out of here."

Over at the door, Monty took off his hat. Zipper was riding on his head. The little fly lept off, and smoothly climbed the door, peering through a vent on top. Meanwhile, Gadget took a tube of super glue from out of her coat and sealed the door leading to the prisoners' side.

Zipper turned around. he said briefly.

Gadget moved left; Monterey to the right. Jürgen knew that he should stay out of their way, but he couldn't stand and be passively rescued, so he followed Gadget. She used the last of the glue to seal the door to the audience room. Jürgen looked doubtfully down the hallway. A guard could appear at any moment. Perhaps he should stay hidden in the audience room, but every instinct in him fought that.

Monty carried Zipper over to the window and took off his lederhosen, revealing a long coil of monofilament fish line wrapped around his torso. He dropped it to the floor, securing one end to one of the bars in the window, while Zipper tied the other end around his waist.

Zipper climbed the wall and lept out the window. He was, perhaps, performing the boldest move of his career: not jumping while unable to fly, but becoming the first bug to volunteer to be caught by a bat. For Foxglove swooped down, and snared the plucky little insect. She then flew up and into the branches of a tree.

"But this is not my helmet," Karl said, holding the Picklehaube and staring at it with some distaste.

"You signed for it," said the bored guard, not looking up from the latest Mouse News. Syril Stacey's new series of articles about the recent convention had started with one titled "The Fifth Horseman." "Plague, Famine, War, and Death; to these can be added the name Widget Hackwrench..."

Karl tilted the helmet, looking into it. There was a mechanism of some sort concealed in it. *Strange,* he thought to himself. *Why would someone using my name visit a prison with a disguised pneumatic drill?*

This thought was immediately followed by *Oh, yeah...*

"D'oh!" Karl laughed, slapping his forehead comically. "I forgot! We rode motorcycles in and there's a helmet law!"

David returned. "Hi, Karl. Where'd you get the helmet?"

Karl faced his friend with clenched teeth. "I-wore-it-because-of- the-helmet-law. Remember?"

David, fortunately, got it immediately. "Oh, yeah. Helmet law."

"Hey..." the guard said suddenly. "Weren't you a lot shorter and blond when you came in?"

"No," David immediately said. "That was me."

"You must see a lot of people every day," Karl explained.

"We'll be going now," said David.

"Good idea," Karl agreed.

The two of them rapidly backed out of the prison, wide grins on their faces. The guard watched the door close, and chewed his lip. Years of instincts told him something was not ... quite ... right.

"Hey, Schultz," he said. "Can you check on something for me?"

Device after device was sent down the fishline. Monterey took each one in turn and passed it to Jürgen, who catalogued them in his mind. Insulating trim tape for windows. Matches. Can of WD-40. A collection of innocent materials which, when used together, would somehow combine to form an escape. Gas masks. Bazooka. A collection of not very innocent materials. From the distance came the sound of booted feet.

"Monty," Gadget ordered. "You start with the RO Blade. I'll delay the guards." She took the bazooka.

"Roight," Monty agreed.

"I'll come with you," Jürgen said immediately.

"No," Gadget replied. "You're the reason we came."

"Gadget," Jürgen repeated, "Let me help."

Monterey nodded, looking at Gadget.

"Okay," she agreed with a grin. "Take the WD-40 and a gas mask and follow me."

At the corner, she touched him, indicating he should wait for her. She stepped around the corner, bazooka behind her.

Schultz and five other guards, carrying clubs, paused when they saw a very pretty girl mouse standing alone at the end of the corridor, about a foot from them.

"Hi!" she said. "You know, the Geneva Convention outlawed the used of chemical agents, even incapacitating ones."

The guards looked at one another. It seemed a strange way to start a conversation. They waited politely.

"I think it's a darned silly rule," Gadget informed them, popping a gas mask into place and leveling the bazooka.

They were in full flight when she fired a canister of concentrated skunk juice after them.

"Back to Monty," she said. "Hose the floor down with WD-40 after us." She left the bazooka behind -- there was only one load.

Jürgen complied. She sprinted ahead. Since they had built this prison after a break from the old one using laughing gas, they were probably prepared for this with gas masks and other equipment in storage. It would buy them some time, but not much.

By the time he had emptied the can, they had finished making a circle on the wall with the insulation. Jürgen couldn't imagine how this would help them escape, so he watched, perplexed, as Gadget struck a match.

Down at the other end of the corridor, a gas-masked guard raced towards them, hit the WD-40, and screamed as he shot helplessly down the corridor. He crashed into the wall next to them.

Jürgen moved him out of the way as Gadget held the match to the insulating tape. Seeing Monterey turn around and cover his ears, Jürgen adopted a similar posture.

The material Jürgen had mistaken for the adhesive-backed rubber tape used to insure a tight fit around a closed window was, in reality, Royal Ordnance Blade 100, a product of Royal Ordnance Industrial Energetics in Lancashire. It was a shaped charge DEMEX 200 "industrial energetic" capable of cutting a hole through six millimeters of steel, even before Gadget made her modifications. It went off the instant Gadget touched it with her match, much to her surprise.

A circular hole nearly thirty millimeters in diameter was instantly blown through the prison wall. Jürgen and Monty were set for the explosion; Gadget was not. She was knocked backwards, onto the floor. Hard.

"Gadget, love," Monty gasped in horror, lifting her to a seated position and shaking her. "Speak to me!" Jürgen watched, shocked, his escape forgotten. A second guard came shooting down the corridor and out the new exit. They paid him no mind.

Gadget opened her eyes. Monty immediately noticed her pupils were rotating slowly in opposite directions. "Big boom," she informed Monterey. "Big badaboom!" she said with emphasis.

Shaking her head violently, she quickly came back to normal, or as close as she got.

"Yes, love," Monty said tenderly. "Big boom."

"Monty, we don't have any time to waste," she prodded him. "Let's go!"

"Too right!" Monty grinned and squeezed through the hole.

He had forgotten they were about six feet from the ground. Fortunately, the drop wasn't sheer. Landing painfully on the slope on the best padded part of his anatomy, he scooted down loose soil and gravel with ever-increasing velocity. By scrabbling desperately, he was able to keep his speed down somewhat -- the pebbles and grit avalanching with him was spreading down ahead and wouldn't bury him. After the fourth foot, he was wishing he had left his lederhosen on.

Still, the worst part of any fall is the touchdown, and he landed, if not safely, at least reasonably so. He took a mental inventory of his parts and was relieved to decide they were intact. As he came to his feet, two coils of fishline unwound near him, to be followed moments later by Gadget and Jürgen, rappelling down safely. Monterey looked at them with mock pique.

"What kept ya?" he asked.

"A healthy respect for gravity," Jürgen explained.

Gadget checked on the guard who had preceded them. He would be in pain when he woke up, but it didn't look serious. She exhaled slowly, and started shaking slightly. She had thought ... No. Not now. She had to stay focussed. She looked up and saw guards coming down the fishline, at least four on each. "Go back!" she yelled. "The acid's almost eaten through by now--"

The guards scampered back to safety. "Good bluff," Jürgen said admiringly.

"Bluff?" Gadget asked.

Foxglove hovered above them, Zipper riding comfortably in the scoop which had been the last embrace for many insects. "They're coming," she said tightly. "We have to go!"

By flying above, Foxglove was able to guide them away from patrols and back to the MoDoLaLaPlat. Gadget made sure they were all strapped in before climbing into her seat in front.

"They'll call in aircraft," Jürgen pointed out.

"Gadget, love," Monterey said, "We're in for a scrap. This buggy ain't got enough speed to outrun police airplanes."

"Yes we do," she assured him. She pulled a switch and the Mobile Dorsal Latching Launch Platform began to lift the cylindrical fuselage to a vertical position.

"I call it the Ranger Rocket Mark VI," she explained. "That should make you happy, Monty, because six time's a charm."

"Three time's a charm," Monty corrected.

"Then we're twice as lucky!"

"Why Mark VI?" Jürgen said, beginning to feel little pangs of doubt.

"It's the sixth one. You see," she explained, "the Ranger Rocket Mark II, III, IV, and V all used liquid propellant. That needs a complicated cooling system in the combustion chamber to prevent burnthroughs."

"Which is why they all blew up," Monterey explained to Jürgen.

"Monty's exaggerating. The Mark V didn't blow up."

"Did you launch it?" Monty shot back.

"Well, no," Gadget admitted. "But the Mark VI uses a solid propellant, so cooling is easier."

"And 'as just one little drawback," Monty told Jürgen. "You can't turn it off once you launch."

"Exactly," Gadget agreed. She brightened. "But, since we'll all probably lose consciousness during the burn, that really doesn't matter."

"Did you lose consciousness during the test flights?" Jürgen asked.

"Well..." Gadget hedged. "This is kind of the first time it's flown."

Jürgen hesitated. "You mean, flown with a crew, of course," he said cautiously.

Monterey, Gadget, Zipper and Foxglove all looked at one another somberly. "No," they said as one.

Jürgen suppressed a wry smile. As though an engineer with Gadget's reputation would take an aircraft up for the first time with four passengers. They were obviously kidding with him; well, he could take a joke.

He was still chuckling during the countdown.

"Well, lads," said Sergeant Apone, "What do you think?"

"I think it doesn't look good," Hicks said immediately, regarding the rocket a few yards from them with a worried expression.

"Wierzbowsky?"

"It looks pretty bad," Wierzbowsky agreed.

"Frost?"

"I say it looks like a problem for the Air Force," Frost nodded.

"And I think we should look for something to hide behind," Hicks added.

Apone nodded, decisively. "Sounds like a plan," he agreed.

Laymen are often surprised to learn that ballistic rockets like the V-2, Scud, MX and Ranger Rocket (Mark VI) take off relatively slowly. As the fuel burns away and the rocket is thereby lightened, the acceleration increases dramatically. The fuel is generally completely used up shortly after takeoff, and almost the entire flight is spent coasting.

Zipper was the first to awaken, and Foxglove had never fallen unconscious at all. Although she was not a fast flier, she was agile, and the smooth, sustained acceleration of the rocket was not too much for her. Gadget was next, her youth and relative health giving her an edge over Monterey and Jürgen.

Zipper asked.

"About two minutes," Foxglove told him. She had been surprised by how quiet the engine was; this was because they were moving faster than the noise.

Gadget's vision was slowly coming back. First, she had tunnel vision; gradually, her peripheral vision returned, and colors began to return. She was already checking indicators. They were on course, heading northeast. The barometric altimeter was fluctuating wildly; the sensor, she realized, was being hit by pulses of shockwave that rendered it effectively useless at this speed. The airspeed indicator was pegged; they were over the speed of sound, possibly considerably over the speed of sound. The sensors were designed to work at lower speeds and altitudes, when they would be needed for a landing. It had been a logical decision, but now she wished she had more of a clue as to what the plane was doing.

They were horizontal, more or less; the artificial horizon seemed just a touch out of alignment with the actual curve of the earth, so she adjusted the nose down a fraction. The wings were locked into a 45 degree swing, and were bearing up under the stress. Everything was going well, but she had the nagging feeling she had forgotten something.

Gadget? Zipper asked, looking out her window. I don't think that's Manhattan down there.

"Oh yeah," Gadget said out loud. "That's what I forgot. Range."

Widget returned to consciousness about the same time as her sister. Dale still had his arm around her; the other hand held an issue of _Dr. Radium._ She had turned towards him, nuzzling his throat with her muzzle. It was a distressingly intimate gesture, which she immediately broke off.

"I think I dozed off," she said. "Sorry."

"About seven and a half hours," Dale corrected. "Good thing Chip brought me _three_ comics."

"Seven and a half --" she gasped. "Gimcrack --"

"Mrs. Shapiro gave him a bottle. She said it would be good practice. Is she expecting?"

"Yes. Keep it to yourself." Her eyes softened. "Dale, you sat here all this time?"

Dale looked at her, momentarily confused. "You needed the sleep." There was something in Dale's expression, as though he couldn't understand what the big deal was. It made Widget feel warm, somehow.

Widget shook her head and smiled. "Foxglove's a lucky girl. You should know that."

"Jürgen's a lucky boy. I know. You talk in your sleep."

She looked at him sharply. He had a friendly, dimwitted grin on his face. For an instant, the corner of his mouth twitched. "Gotcha," he said.

Widget laughed out loud. "Don't ever change, Dale."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come," Widget rapped out, disentangling herself from Dale. Chip came in from the bridge.

"Widget," he said, "we need to finish our conversation."

She looked grim. "Yes."

Chip folded his arms. "I know you run a skeleton crew much of the time. When is the port torpedo room left empty?"

"Never," Widget shook her head. "The port torpedo room is staffed at all times."

"Then it has to be someone who can be alone in the port torpedo room, almost every day," Chip said softly. "Someone who knows the maintenance schedule for the torpedoes, and can make sure the right ones are in the magazine."

Widget's chin slowly dropped to her chest. "Not him," she said weakly.

Chip nodded. "I'm sorry, Widget."

Widget walked over to the door to the bridge and opened it. Immediately, everyone looked in her direction. Possibly boredom, she thought; they had been laying doggo on the bottom all night. Or nerves. It didn't take much to guess why Chip insisted on talking to her alone, and what he must have said to make her break off the attack on _Mahan._

"Chief Barra," she said steadily, "Please escort Andy to my cabin."

Chief Barra nodded. His mouth was dry, but there was still a chance this was routine. He had to make sure.

"I think he's off duty, ma'am. Should I wake him?"

Widget and Chief Barra knew very well Andy was on duty. She knew why the question was being asked.

"Yes," she nodded. "Please wake him."

Gadget jumped off the phone mouthpiece. "There," she said. "I couldn't get _Albacore_ so I left them voicemail."

"I think that's our train," Jürgen pointed.

It was quick work to find a place inside one of the cars. As they pulled out, Foxglove came to her decision.

She had to have it out with Gadget. She would have preferred to do it when they were alone, but with the excitement over and the tedium of a train ride ahead of them, she felt as though she was going to burst.

"Gadget," she stopped.

"Yes, Foxglove?" Bright, innocent eyes turned to face hers. So guileless, yet this was the face of the enemy. Foxglove started gently.

"You know, Gadget, Dale is about the most important person in the world to me."

"I know that," Gadget agreed casually. "He's a neat guy, and I like him too."

It was the worst thing she could have said. It seemed not only to underscore her designs, but to say it wasn't all that important to her -- and she would do it anyway. Foxglove was trembling, when she launched into her.

"And he's mine, Gadget! It's only fair! I wanted him first! I want him more! I know I look like a sock filled with pudding, but I'll fight for him! Just see if I don't! And I'll win, too, no matter how beautiful or smart or blonde the opposition is! So there!"

Gadget paled. The guys looked on, shocked and wordless under the assault of Foxglove's rage.

"Foxy," Gadget said, trembling, taking her wing in her hands. "Is someone trying to steal Dale from you?"

Foxglove was taken aback.

Gadget frowned and concentrated. "Let's see... you said she was beautiful, smart, and blonde. Now who does Dale know who's beautiful, smart and blonde?"

While Gadget puzzled over this, Foxglove looked mutely over to the guys for help.

"She's not bein' sarcastic," Monterey told her gently.

Gadget blinked. "Of course she's not being sarcastic, Monty! How could you think that?"

"Er --" said Jürgen.

"Desiree DeLure isn't blonde," Gadget mused.

"Er --" said Foxglove.

"Neither is anyone in Tammy's family..." Gadget frowned.

"I think she means you, Gadget-love," Monterey said gently.

Gadget sniffed. "Don't be silly. I'm not beautiful. Anyway, I can't figure it out, Foxy."

"Gadget," Jürgen assured her, "you are beautiful." Zipper nodded agreement.

"Oh, you sillies," Gadget snorted, swishing her hand disdainfully at the flatterers.

"AAAK!" Foxglove abruptly cried out, pointing at Gadget accusingly. "You've got a crush on Chip!" Foxglove choked back laughter.

A blush spread rapidly from Gadget's collar and out her ears and to the tip of her tail. "D-d-don't be silly, Foxglove," she stammered unconvincingly. She glanced surreptitiously at the guys to see if her cunning fib deflected suspicion. Special male survival genes insured they pretended to believe her.

"With Chip!" Foxglove repeated, emitting gales of uncontrollable laughter. Rearranging her ears into a mock fedora, she put her hands on her hips and addressed Monterey seriously. "Dale," she announced, doing an excellent imitation of Chip's squeak, "if you do not clean your part of the room, I shall be forced to bonk you severely and repeatedly." An instant later, she was on all fours, banging her head against the floor, tittering. "Chip," she repeated. "I can't believe it!"

"It's not that funny," Gadget said though clenched teeth, "I mean, it wouldn't be, if it was true, which it isn't."

The fifty miles of rail flew by in spirited discussion.

SRV _Albacore,_ 1528 GMT (1028 EST)

Being taken off duty station wasn't in itself unusual. Being taken from duty by a silent and emotionless Chief of the Boat and escorted to the Captain's cabin was. And when he saw Chip and Dale there, looking at him as seriously as the owner of the boat, he knew he had lost.

Although Chip was trying to be as unobtrusive as possible -- this was _Albacore's_ problem, and he didn't want to step on Widget's toes - - Andy looked at him square in the eye for several moments. Chip lost what doubt remained then.

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about a torpedo named Fox Seven Able," Widget said quietly. "It was in our port torpedo room. We can't seem to find it, and can't help but wonder if it might have bumped into the _Lucy Tania. _"

Andy looked away.

"You helped with the torpedo loading? You kept the tally. Easy enough to say eleven were loaded when it was actually twelve."

Andy didn't react.

"And the airplane you saw when you knew I was talking to Feldmows. That airplane was never there, was it?"

Andy was quiet.

Chip decided it was time to play Bad Cop. "How did you get paid?" he drawled as offensively as possible.

It worked. Andy shot him a venomous glance. "I did not get paid!" he spat out. "It was my idea! Fat Cat only filled in some of the details."

*Fat Cat?* Chip wondered, stunned. He looked at Widget's profile, and suddenly remembered her in a wedding dress. *Oh.*

"I believe you, Andy," Widget said gently. "Tell me why you did it."

"Fat Cat just wants you to counter your sister," Andy muttered. He straightened and looked at her. "When my parents and I dug you out of ... that cave in, you were like, I don't know. A mouse, fierce as a wolf. If I had to do something that frightened me, I just imagined you watching. Because I couldn't be afraid in front of you." He hesitated. "But ma'am, I heard you in the next room, crying in your sleep, and I know how much it hurt you. Ma'am, I never asked you, but the cave in. You did that because you built weapons for other people, weapons you didn't control any more? And you did it because you were responsible?"

"Yes," Widget admitted. "Yes, I did."

"Ma'am, why are you doing it for Staten City?"

"That's ... different," she said weakly.

Andy shook his head. "No, ma'am, it's just bigger. Some day they're going to do something with those weapons that will tear your heart out. That's what governments do. They fight wars, like the one your father hunted your husband through."

Chip looked at Widget. She didn't reply.

"And I don't want that to happen, ma'am," Andy said softly. "I had to break that link between you and Staten City. I'm sorry that Jürgen got into trouble. Please forgive me if I hurt you."

"Andy," Widget said. "Andy, I owe you my life." she smiled wryly. "And that time you fell into the gears brought me together with my sister."

Andy grinned, embarrassed. That had ended with his calling her 'mommy.'

"I don't think I could ever be angry with you. Even now I'm not." She set her jaw. "But you have endangered my husband, my boat, the _Lucy Tania,_ and the _Mahan._ The Captain and I will discuss what seems appropriate, if we can clean up this mess you've made and get him back. But I'd pack, if I were you. Chief Barra, please take him to the brig."

"Ma'am," Chief Barra nodded.

"One moment, if you please, ma'am," Chip asked. Widget nodded. Chip looked at Andy.

"Why didn't you just leave the torpedo in the tube?" the chipmunk asked. "The only way we found it was by looking at maintenance records."

Andy nodded. "I'd stand watch during lunch breaks. That gave me enough time to switch torpedoes around, but not check one out. The Fox torpedoes need to be checked out every few days. I'd only be able to check it out every ten days."

"Why didn't you change the serial number on the fin to match another torpedo?" Chip asked.

Andy looked startled. "I didn't think of that."

Chip laughed mirthlessly. "Andy, did you really think you were smarter than Widget, the entire crew of this boat, and me rolled together? Isn't that what you'd have to be to lie to us all effectively?"

Andy didn't answer. He then silently came to attention and saluted his commander. Widget nodded, once, unwilling to say anything out loud. Chief Barra took Andy out, using the back door, not through the bridge.

Dale watched Widget and watched Chip. He was hoping Chip would leave quietly, so Widget could be alone.

No such luck. "You told Gadget that Andy wasn't particularly important to you."

Widget looked at him. "Given the circumstances, I didn't want to paint a target on his forehead."

"Of course," Chip nodded.

Widget stood silently. "A defenseless mouse is both loved and threatened by a friend," she whispered. "I never really thought of myself as defenseless."

*Chip,* Dale thought silently. *Please just go away. She needs a few minutes to compose herself.*

"I think the next step is to let Staten City know," Chip prodded.

"Yes," Widget immediately agreed. "We'll surface and I'll make a few calls."

Widget shook off Dale's hand and she walked to the bridge to issue the appropriate instructions.



The albino mouse replayed the voicemail from Gadget a third time. She couldn't believe the news. Chip was grinning broadly.

"She is one heck of a ..." Chip said, and shook his head, chuckling.

Even the euphoria of knowing her husband was free didn't override Widget's attention to detail. "But why," Widget asked out loud, "why did they end up in Hartford, Connecticut?" Gadget hadn't mentioned the Ranger Rocket (Mark VI).

"This I have learned about Gadget," Chip replied. "If you want to sleep easily, don't sweat the small stuff."

"Well ignoring that, I'm a bit nervous over, 'Please don't call Staten City for a bit -- I'm going to try to negotiate a cease fire.'"

"Oh, that," Chip got more serious. "Well, it's not like Gadget's going to show up in person after mounting a prison breakout."

"Morning, Jerome, Caitlin," Feldmows said into the phone. "You would not believe who just showed up at my office."

Catbane looked over at Caitlin. She grinned widely. "Widget, or Gadget?" she asked, tittering at her little joke.

"Gadget," Feldmows said briefly. "With Syril Stacey."

Catbane blinked. "She shows up after a commando raid on a prison and ..."

Feldmows shrugged. "Well, she wants to negotiate a cease fire, and open a joint investigation. Since we're not actually shooting at anyone, it would assure her sister won't do anything crazy."

"Terrific," Catbane agreed.

"The problem is, how do I keep from arresting her?" It was a real problem.

Catbane drummed his fingers for a moment. "Caitlin, has Widget ever taken a formal Staten City citizenship?"

"No," Caitlin immediately answered. "All right. If Widget isn't our citizen, she's obviously the leader of a sovereign state. Gadget is here with diplomatic immunity." "Which also means Jürgen can't sue for false arrest," Caitlin said, nodding approvingly. "He was a prisoner of war." "An enemy soldier on a mission out of uniform can be tried as a spy," Feldmows objected.

"I think it's within your discretion to overlook a bloodless commando raid," Catbane replied.

"And I think you should," Caitlin jumped in. "I mean, can you imagine the press?"

The three of them shuddered, imagining the press.

"Anyway," Catbane said, "Feel free to negotiate. I'll back you later."

"I'll get on that," Feldmows agreed.

"Just don't give away the store," Catbane grinned.

Feldmows sat at the small conference table. Syril was eating her third Honey Nut Cheerio while Gadget was a bit too nervous to snack.

"I'm happy to say I've received authorization to deal with you as an ambassador of a foreign power," Feldmows said with a nod. "This means you can't be arrested, not even for the attack on the prison."

"Good. Admiral, do you believe Widget torpedoed that boat deliberately?" Gadget asked.

"No," Feldmows said with a shake of his head.

"I'm glad you realized," Syril muttered around a mouthful of Cheerio, performing a slight breach of both diplomatic and journalistic protocol.

Feldmows looked at Syril with astonishment. "I'm surprised to hear you say that. I heard a rumor that you were interviewing witch doctors in search of a Widget-repelling magical talisman."

"Well, yeah, she is incredibly evil, of course," Syril admitted, ignoring Gadget's frown. "Still, there's no way she'd do something like that while her husband was on shore. She's loyal to her friends. It's her only virtue."

"It is not her only virtue," Gadget objected.

Feldmows and Syril looked at her in blank astonishment. "Name another," Feldmows challenged her.

Gadget thought for a long moment. "She's very clean," she finally said.

*This,* thought Feldmows, *will be a snap. After all, I've dealt with her sister, the she-dog goddess from aitch ee double hockey sticks.*

Blue eyes seemed to melt into his own. "Admiral, please," Gadget said softly, "please help me stop all this before someone gets hurt."

She smiled slightly, entreatingly.

Beads of sweat began to form on Feldmows' paws. This wasn't going to be as easy as he had hoped.

"Feldmows," Caitlin said idly, "you gave away the store."

Feldmows played for a moment with his coffee thimble. "You don't understand," he tried to explain. "She - she was going to look sad at me." He shuddered. "I just couldn't..."

"Recriminations are worthless at this point," Catbane interjected. "From the no-patrol zones they requested, -- and got -- it's pretty obvious they intend to dock _Albacore_ somewhere in the Hudson River."

"I don't think so," Feldmows shook his head. "I think it's a blind. The Rangers can rendezvous with _Albacore_ at sea."

They were interrupted by a buzzing intercom.

"Hello," Caitlin answered.

"The Ranger is here, ma'am."

"Send her in."

They were mildly surprised when a chipmunk in fedora and leather jacket came in instead. He held an envelope under one arm.

"I'm surprised you didn't send Gadget," Caitlin said, glancing at Feldmows. "I understand she can be an effective negotiator."

Feldmows looked uncomfortable.

"This matter's a little delicate," Chip responded, and sat down.

"You said you were going to explain why Widget over reacted," Caitlin said.

"I think it's pretty clear," Feldmows interjected. "When _Lucy Tania_ was attacked, she had every reason to assume there was a hostile sub in the water. She did everything right. From my point of view, she did not over react."

Chip nodded politely. A submarine is a naval assassin, most effective when striking from surprise. So, Staten City didn't know she had come close to attacking _Mahan._ For the time being, that was probably a good thing. It was a good thing Widget hadn't built an aircraft carrier. Chip kept his thoughts to himself.

"Until she kidnapped Captain Murry," Caitlin disagreed.

"I think it's important you see these." Chip passed out copies of the emails from Deep Stoat.

Catbane slipped on a pair of glasses and read. Within a few moments, he was gritting his teeth and turning red. Chip watched him carefully. It was mostly a formality, but he no longer had any serious doubts that Catbane was innocent of the accusations.

"They're your granddaughters?" Feldmows said with surprise.

"We believe pretty strongly now these are forgeries sent by Fat Cat or someone in his organization," Chip said quickly. "Still, I think they explain why Widget and Gadget both treated Staten City as hostile."

"They believed this nonsense?" Catbane snarled.

Chip blinked. "Why shouldn't they?" he asked.

"Well, for -" Caitlin began.

Chip leaned closer to Catbane. "Were you ever a grandfather to them, sir?" he demanded. "Did you ever, by action or word, imply or show they were ever anything but meat by-product to you?"

"Nicely put," Caitlin said approvingly.

"Jerome," Feldmows said coldly, "you didn't disown them, did you?"

"And what business is that of yours, sir?" Catbane's expression told Chip he was probably making a mistake, but the chipmunk was on a roll.

"It is my business," he said calmly, "because you are responsible for hurting someone very dear to me. It is my business, because I just spent a two days and a night trying to prevent a war, and wondering if I should."

"Do you think," Catbane snapped back, "do you think it was _easy_ for me?"

Catbane and Chip were nose to nose, now.

Surprisingly, Chip stepped back. For a moment, his expression was sorrowful.

"If you feel like hell," he said softly, "maybe it's because you're doing the devil's work."

Maxima Atmospherica Café, December 16, 1520 EST (2020 GMT)

"I'm not convinced this is a good idea," Chip told Gadget dubiously. "It isn't really our style."

Gadget looked up at him. "If we don't come up with something, Widget will."

"This is a brilliant idea," Chip reversed himself.

The little rooftop rodent café had wonderful madelines. Catbane dunked one in his coffee, and looked over at Caitlin, wishing they were alone. She blew a kiss and a wink which made the third mouse at the table wonder why the chief of state was in such a good mood.

"You didn't have to come, Captain Murry," Catbane said mildly.

"Yes, I did, sir." His eyes burned furiously. "For the good of my soul."

Three more mice came up and sat silently with them. Jürgen and Widget, who carried Gimcrack in a sling. A silent waiter took their orders before they turned to the others.

"You'll be shoving off soon?" Catbane asked politely.

"Tomorrow," Jürgen replied. "I gave my apologies to Feldmows, but ..." he looked at his wife and they smiled, "I think I have more important things to do."

Catbane smiled. "Good decision, Cap -"

"May I interject?" Murry interjected.

"Are you going to tell us how you got knocked out ... by a girl?" Widget asked innocently.

Murry clouded. "I brought a vial of holy water, to pour on you and make you shrivel," he said through clenched teeth.

"Steady on," Caitlin said, blinking.

"-But I do not want to risk splashing your child. You are a menace to everything that is good and righteous. Some day, justice incarnate will track you by your slime trail and I, I shall be the hand of this justice."

"You must be Captain Murry," Jürgen said politely. "I don't believe we've -"

Murry and Widget faced one another, unable to see anything but their foe. Their breath hissed through their teeth, sounding like two venomous reptiles.

Jürgen waved to the waiter. "Ice water, please."

"Two buckets," Catbane amended.

"Speak not to me," she returned, "of the mortal guise of retribution; swift, certain, cruel, crunchy. For I am she. Invoke not my name in vain."

Murry broke into a reluctant grin. "Very good."

Widget smiled back. "You're not bad yourself."

"Try one of my madelines?" he offered.

"Thank you. I've heard they're very good here."

Peace established, Widget munched her madeline while Catbane changed the subject. "Will you be extraditing the crewman who was responsible?"

"No," Jürgen said firmly. "He is _Albacore's_ responsibility."

Catbane blinked. "Then why did you ask us to meet you here?"

Widget and Jürgen looked at one another blankly. "You asked us..." Widget said uncertainly.

At that moment, the whir of an electric motor was heard and from behind an air vent came a large toy fire truck, a hook-and-ladder. Gadget drove while Chip steered the rear wheels. Monterey, Foxglove, and Zipper, all wearing helmets, stood on the running boards while Dale lustily rang a bell. Laying down on the ladder, tail towards the front of the truck, was a long, finned cylinder. "RANGER ROCKET Mk V" was painted boldly down the side. Gadget took the truck through a 180 degree turn, allowing the astonished audience to read the lettering down the other side: "THIS SCUD'S FOR YOU."

Without a word, Gadget released powered stabilizing struts while Monterey began to work the ladder mechanism, lifting the rocket and pointing it across the street. Widget looked downrange and a smile came; her eyes glittered. She saw the Happy Tom Cat Food Factory, den of iniquity and shrine to villainy.

"Could we have a phone, please?" Gadget asked a waiter. He was happy to comply. People tend to be co-operative when somebody with a missile shows up. Dale took a madeline from Captain Murry's plate.

"Chip, I think you should call," Gadget offered.

Chip shook his head. "No, I wouldn't dream of it."

Gadget dialed a few numbers.

"Hello, Fat Cat?" she asked. "We're the Rescue Rangers... No, I'm calling to keep you alive. Just look out your window, at the café across the street." She paused. "Well, maybe we are bluffing. But I did warn you! Bye-bye!" She hung up.

Zipper offered a match to Monterey, as though presenting arms. Monterey saluted, and took the match from him. He used it to light a fuse sticking out of the rocket's bell nozzle.

Across the street, a Fat Cat shaped hole opened in the side of the statue's head, as the crime lord lept out, followed by his henchmen.

"Shouldn't we clear the area?" Catbane asked, looking at the sputtering fuse.

"Nah," Gadget laughed. "It *is* a bluff. I had Monty drain the fuel tank before we came."

Monterey blinked. "Gadget-love, you didn't ask me to do that."

"Didn't I?" Gadget asked, surprised.

"RUN!" Dale screamed.

"Dale," Gadget snapped, "don't panic. Let's be methodical here. Chip, did I ask you to drain the fuel tank?"

"No..." Chip said. "Gadget, maybe to save time, you could just ask if anyone drained the fuel tank."

"Good idea," Gadget said with a bright nod. "Did I ask anyone to drain the fuel tank?"

Everyone looked at one another nervously, hoping someone would speak up.

"Did anyone drain the fuel tank without my asking them?" Gadget asked.

More silence. Gimcrack began to emit a thin wail. This was strange, for he hardly ever cried.

"I know I don't normally like people to tinker with my inventions," Gadget said apologetically, "but in this case I really wouldn't mind if you had."

Even after this assurance, nobody admitted to it.

"Okay," Gadget finally said, looking at the sputtering fuse vanish into the nozzle, "I think we can panic now."

"Foxglove!" Widget yelled. "Catch!" and tossed Gimcrack at her like a football. Foxglove effortlessly snared the baby mouse, and kept going. The others dropped to all fours for speed and shot across the roof, the still-flightless Zipper riding Monterey's back. All except Widget, who broke into a two-legged sprint.

Jürgen realized he was leaving her in his dust, so he stopped, and turned to run back to her. So, he was the only one to see the Ranger Rocket (Mk V) take off.

First, there was a sharp boom as the gasses ignited. This was a dangerous moment, for often a too-rich mixture in the combustion chamber caused an explosion. But then came the hissing roar of a proper engine start. Jürgen watched, stunned, as the rocket streaked off the fire engine with a tail of flame. Faster and faster it went, Gadget's regenerative cooling system preventing a burnthrough of the combustion chamber. By the time it entered the mouth of the Happy Tom statue, Jürgen could no longer track the rocket by eye; it looked like a flash of fire.

Although it carried no warhead, it did carry fuel. The entire head of the statue exploded in a cloud of pulverized concrete with a hollow BOOM.

The patrons of the café burst into applause, as the statue atop the cat food factory turned into a headless sphinx, showering powder on the fleeing citizenry below. Fortunately, there were no large pieces, apart from the one which went through the windshield of officers Kirby and Muldoon, parked in front of the donut store.

Across the street, Mole smiled and clapped. The others were too stunned to begrudge him this.

Fat Cat drew upon his knowledge of the classics. Ozymandias? He wondered. The Bagavad-Ghita? Bruce Willis flick? Yes. "Big badaboom," Fat Cat muttered.

"I hear Florida is nice this time of year," Mepps hinted.

Widget had been closest to the rocket when it took off, but she was well out of the back blast zone. She panted heavily, as her husband embraced her. Dale strolled back to make sure she wasn't hurt.

"Why didn't you run on all fours?" Dale asked. "It's faster."

Widget didn't bother to answer in words: the look she gave him was sufficient.

"Oops," Dale said and smiled foolishly.

Foxglove went into a hover in front of her, letting her pluck her baby from out of her scoop.

"Thanks," Widget said.

"It was kind of fun," Foxglove assured her. Gimcrack was giggling happily and applauding; clearly, he wanted to do it again.

"Not a chance," his mother told him.

Jerome Catbane and Gadget both heaved a sigh of relief when they saw Gimcrack was none the worse for the wear. Foxglove and Gimcrack were discussing the matter of a second ride with his parents, and meeting resistance.

"You built that rocket?" Catbane asked quietly.

Gadget took a moment before she realized the question was directed at her. "Yes," she said cautiously.

He smiled. "That was great," he said. "I haven't had so much fun since the last arms race."

Gadget smiled, hesitantly.

He grew more serious. "That's the Flavisham in you," he said with some pride. "You get it from your mother's mother's side of the family. Elaine - my wife - she worked in a motor pool during the war, and I don't think I've ever seen her happier."

"I'd like to hear more about her," Gadget said softly.

Catbane looked at her for a moment. "Gadget," he finally said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there at the end of your mother's life. I'm sorry I wasn't there for the beginning of yours. It was pure, stupid pride on my part, and I pray that you will let me make up for it."

Widget watched from a distance as her sister hugged the old man. She looked away. She knew he'd be asking her shortly, and fought a silent battle against herself. The simple fact was that if she had a choice between seeing Catbane in his grave and kicking Andy off the _Albacore,_ she'd rather go with the funeral. However, that wasn't an option. She knew she'd need more time to settle her feelings. She had been Catbane's friend before she was his granddaughter; the betrayal still hurt.

For the first time, she wished she was more like Gadget. Forgiveness came easily for her.

"Good decision, Caitlin told Gadget. "He's really very nice when he isn't being a prat. Jerome, you made me an offer the other day."

Catbane looked over at her. "Yes?" he asked.

"I'd be inclined to accept, now." She took out an organizer and started looking for dates.

Church of the Holy Trinity (Central Park West between 67th & 68th), 1710 EST

"Chip," Gadget said, starting to feel a little exasperated, "for the third time, what is this all about?"

Chip was ahead of her, creeping slowly through the dusty rafters. The Wing was parked safely on the roof, and Chip had never come this way before. "I just want you to meet this guy. Talk to him."

"About what?" Gadget folded her arms and refused to budge.

Chip looked at her silently. "About what gave you last night's nightmares."

Gadget looked sideways. Chip sighed.

"Gadget, it was an accident. We've been through this a hundred times. You made a mistake."

"And is your friend going to tell me anything different?" Gadget asked.

"I don't know. But you need help getting over it. You'd be sick if you didn't."

He put his hands on her shoulders, mostly to keep her from turning back. "Gadget," he repeated, "Please. It hurts me to hear you cry. I can't be happy if you aren't."

Gadget smiled weakly. What was it, some definition, the state where another's happiness is essential for your own?

There was a chink in the ceiling, and a desk where a man in his forties sat at a computer. There was a grizzled, old dog sitting by a space heater. Chip fastened his safety pin line to a rafter, and let the end dangle to the top of the monitor. Gadget flinched; running in front of a Human was against every instinct. But Chip hopefully knew what he was doing.

They slid down the line, in plain view of the typing Human. Gadget's nerves were killing her; he must be nearsighted indeed if Chip didn't mind walking in front of him. Gadget turned to look at the slumbering dog. Old, venerable even. She hated to disturb him.

Chip took off his hat. "Pastor Hansen?" he asked politely.

"The name's Davey, Chip," the Human replied, glancing up. "Is this Gadget?"

"You're a Speaker?" Gadget asked, astonished.

Davey grinned. "I prefer to think of myself as a 'Listener.'" He leaned back in his chair. "Chip's told me a little," Davey told her. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Gadget gulped. "Uh, yes, I think..."

"Would you rather we were alone?"

"No," Gadget said immediately. "Your dog looks too comfortable to be moved."

"I think he means me," Chip corrected gently.

Gadget realized she was holding his hand.

"No," Gadget replied. "I'd rather you stayed here."

The talk didn't solve everything, of course, but at the end, Gadget felt merely sad and guilty; she could put her hands around the feelings, and experience them, without fearing they would crush her. It was a step in the right direction.

To be continued........