The Guardians of Zoone

by Lee Edward Födi

  He wound up and kicked the nearest oil drum. It had already been lying on its side, but now it began to roll ponderously across the floor.

  Right into a stack of metal bins.

  Ozzie winced as the whole tower crashed to the floor, stirring up a cloud of dust.

  “Ozzie!” he heard Aunt Temperance shout. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Ugh!” That was Fidget. “Are you trying to get us captured? Maybe you could, you know, make more noise?”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” came Tug’s reply. “The motos might hear us.”

  “We’re coming, lad!” Cho called. “Where are you?”

  Ozzie didn’t answer. He was staring into the bin that had crashed to the floor in front of him. Its lid had popped off and Ozzie could just make out a peculiar shape inside. He took a tentative step forward and peered into the darkness.

  Ozzie’s heart skipped a beat.

  Staring right back at him was a moto.

  15

  The Misfit Moto

  Ozzie’s immediate instinct was to turn tail, race through the warehouse, and hide behind the nearest skyger, but . . .

  But.

  There was something about this moto, something that beckoned him like a magnet to metal. Instead of retreating, he crept toward it.

  It was inactive, which meant it was about as threatening as a teapot. And that was just it, Ozzie realized as he scrutinized the moto. It looked like a teapot—at least, one without a spout. It was bulbous and squat, even its head, which was capped by a metal hat in the shape of an upside-down flowerpot. Several crooked antennae jutted from the top.

  Ozzie grabbed a nearby rod of scrap metal and used it to prod one of its thick hands, checking to see if it had any dangerous weaponry. Instead of saw blades or knives, it had chunky three-fingered hands. Its fingertips looked like they were supposed to plug into something.

  “Ozzie?” came Aunt Temperance’s voice from over his shoulder. “Are you all right? What are you doing?”

  Ozzie whirled around. Everyone was hovering behind him in concern. “Look what I found,” he said. “Can you help me pull it out?”

  “That’s a moto!” Fidget exclaimed.

  “It’s not working; it won’t hurt us,” Ozzie assured her. At least, I hope not, he added to himself.

  He began tugging on the plump mechanical figure. That was when he realized it had no legs; instead it had a single wheel attached to its base. Still, it was so heavy that he had trouble shifting it.

  “Let me try, lad,” Cho said.

  Ozzie stepped out of the way so that the captain could maneuver the moto out of the bin and into the light. Now that Ozzie could see it better, he noticed how old and rickety it looked. The other motos had looked, for lack of a better word . . . perfect. This one, though, was a patchwork of dented scraps that had been crudely bolted together. Ozzie could see seams crisscrossing its rotund belly.

  “What a hunk of junk,” Fidget pronounced.

  “I don’t know,” Ozzie said, scratching his chin. The moto had large round eyes and the shape of its head gave the impression of chubby cheeks, in between which was the mouth. But instead of the featureless slit that Ozzie had seen on other motos, this one had four large teeth, like piano keys. “I think it looks kind of cute.”

  “And cool,” Tug added agreeably.

  “You’re joking, right?” Fidget protested. “It’s a moto. You know. The things that want to hack us to pieces? To ‘save’ us?”

  Ozzie ignored her. He had circled around the moto to discover a bank of switches on its back, five in total, and next to that a large round cavity. He began flicking the switches up and down, but nothing happened.

  “Ozzie?” Aunt Temperance asked warily. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to see what’s wrong with it.”

  “It’s a metal murderer, that’s what’s wrong with it,” Fidget griped.

  Ozzie glared at her. “I don’t think so. It doesn’t look dangerous. I . . . I just have this feeling.”

  “Oh, that explains everything,” Fidget scoffed. “You have a feeling. Well, so do I—which is that this thing is going to turn on at any moment and start trying to grind me into purple powder.”

  “You know, people are always saying that skygers are ferocious killers—and look at Tug,” Ozzie said. “He’s not dangerous.”

  “Actually, that’s because I’m a Zoonian skyger,” Tug declared, sitting down on his haunches. He playfully swished his tail—and both Fidget and Aunt Temperance quickly scrambled out of the way to avoid being slammed into the nearest wall.

  “Not dangerous?” Fidget snapped, snatching Tug’s tail out of midair and shaking it at Ozzie. “He just about brained me with this thing.”

  “You know what I mean,” Ozzie told her.

  Cho chuckled. “Ozzie makes a good point. Zoone is full of our kind—misfits. Perhaps this moto is one, too.”

  Ozzie ran his fingers over the rough surface of the moto. He did have a feeling about it. His mom might call that being too sensitive, but Aunt Temperance had said that meant having good instincts. And Ozzie’s instincts were telling him to switch on this moto.

  “All we need to figure out is how to power it up,” he said, studying the panel on the back of the moto.

  “Try kicking it,” Fidget suggested. “Actually, I’ll do i—”

  “Wait,” Ozzie said. “There’s a slot next to these switches. It’s round—like for a battery.”

  “Oh!” Tug purred excitedly. “I saw this one story on the TV where they used Power-X batteries. Just to tell you, they last forever.” His fur turned a hopeful purple as he looked at Aunt Temperance.

  “Don’t look at me that way,” she told the skyger. “The only batteries I have are in my flashlight and I’m not letting you use those.”

  But Ozzie barely heard their exchange. He was staring at Aunt Temperance’s ring, dangling on the chain next to her locket. As usual, the stone was pulsing with an electrical charge. “Captain Traxx told me your stone came from here.”

  “Really?” Fidget asked. “When did she say that?”

  Ozzie ignored her question. He hadn’t told any of them about his heart-to-heart with Traxx because he had been so angry with them. And he was still angry with them, so he definitely wasn’t about to get into it now. “She said the stones are what the Creonese used to power their machines.”

  Aunt Temperance stiffened. “Mercurio did not give me a battery for an engagement ring.”

  “That’s an engagement ring?!” Ozzie exclaimed. It did make sense. If there was an engagement, there had to be a ring. But why was it a stone from Creon?

  Aunt Temperance seemed to have the same thought. “How would Mercurio have gotten it? He’s . . . he’s from our world. He told me he came from Hungary!”

  “Just to tell you, that sounds like a terrible place,” Tug said.

  “Maybe Lady Zoone got the ring for him,” Ozzie said. “Let’s just try it, Aunt T.”

  He could see the curiosity percolating inside of her; she wanted answers, too. Which meant it didn’t take her very long to make a decision. She removed the ring from the chain and passed it to Ozzie. “Be careful,” she warned.

  Ozzie plugged the ring into the socket on the back of the moto and gave it a twist. There was a quiet click, and a loud hum instantly began reverberating throughout the moto’s metal body.

  “It worked!” Ozzie exclaimed.

  Fidget glanced at Aunt Temperance. “Looks like Mercurio did give you a battery. That’s romantic.”

  Aunt Temperance didn’t respond, mostly because the moto was now loudly vibrating. Electricity crackled across its surface. Suddenly, it stood erect, and its eyes began to glow.

  “Watch out!” Cho cried.

  The moto lurched.

  “It’s trying to kill us!” Fidget shrieked.

  “If you ask me,” Ozzie said, “it’s trying to dance.”

  The moto was rolling in a tight circle with
one hand curled near its mouth, as if it was holding an imaginary instrument. A peculiar noise burbled out of it, sort of like a trumpet—or a kazoo with an inflated sense of self-esteem.

  The moto came to a halt, as did its fanfare. “Up-down-up-up-down!” it trilled, its head shooting up on a long rodlike neck.

  “Do you think it’s malfunctioning?” Aunt Temperance asked.

  “I told you this was a bad idea!” Fidget shouted.

  The moto’s head slid back down into place. “Up-down-up-up-down,” it repeated. Then, without warning, it zoomed forward and wrapped its spindly arms around Ozzie.

  “Um, what are you doing?” Ozzie wondered.

  “I think she’s trying to hug you,” Tug said.

  “She?” Fidget said skeptically.

  “I don’t know,” Tug said with a carefree flick of his tail. “I just think she’s a she.”

  The moto rolled backward; then, after its head spun fully around, it began to shout, “I want to be a she! Creator, can I be a she?” It—or she, Ozzie supposed—was staring directly at him.

  “I . . . I . . . ,” Ozzie mumbled.

  “Pleasey-please, Creator?” the moto begged, clasping her hands together.

  “I don’t mind if you want to be a she,” Ozzie told her truthfully. “But why do you keep calling me your ‘creator’?”

  The moto began wheeling around again. “You are. You built me. Don’t you remember, Creator? Up-down-up-up-down.”

  “I didn’t build you,” Ozzie told her. “Why do you think that?”

  “You look like Creator!” the moto replied. As she spoke, her teeth wiggled as if they really were piano keys.

  Fidget arched a purple eyebrow and looked Ozzie up and down. “What, your creator wore his shirt inside out?” she asked.

  “Ha ha,” Ozzie retorted. “I don’t think that’s what she m—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” the moto said. “Creator dressed the same. Plus, Creator was the same heighty-height.”

  “Heighty-height?” Aunt Temperance said disapprovingly.

  “Hmm,” Cho murmured, contemplating the moto. “Do you mean, perhaps, that your creator was a child?”

  “That’s right! Same shirty-shirt. Same hair.”

  Ozzie reached up and self-consciously ran his fingers through his hair. It was wilder than usual, all knotted and tangled. That wasn’t exactly his fault, either, he consoled himself. They were trapped in an industrial wasteland crawling with killer robots.

  “Did this creator have a name?” Aunt Temperance asked.

  “Yes! Creator.”

  “That’s not a name,” Fidget said. “That’s a job.”

  “What about you?” Tug asked the moto. “Do you have a name? Just to tell you, most people call me Tug. And this is Ozzie, Fidget, Aunt T, and Captain Cho.”

  “I’m ‘She,’” the moto declared proudly.

  “That’s not a name, that’s a gender,” Fidget told her crossly. “And I don’t think you can have a gender because . . . because . . . well, you’re a moto! You can’t just choose what you want to be.”

  “Why not?” the moto asked, staring inquisitively.

  Fidget’s only response was to cross her arms.

  “I want a namey-name!” the moto blared. She began careening around again, zigzagging in between the bins and barrels, stirring up the dust.

  “She can really scoot,” Tug remarked.

  “Scoot! Scoot!” the moto cried, screeching to a halt. She reversed and twirled around in front of the skyger. “I want to be Scoot!” Then, turning to Ozzie, she added, “Can I be Scoot, Creator?”

  “Yes, of course,” Ozzie replied in exasperation. “But I told you, I’m not your creator. Just call me Ozzie.”

  Aunt Temperance’s eyebrows angled so steeply and sharply they could have knitted wool. “Scoot,” she said, “how long have you been here?”

  “I don’t know,” the moto replied, pirouetting on her wheel. “Creator said, ‘Up-down-up-up-down. Be ready.’ Then he put me to sleepy-sleep in the bin.”

  “You mean he removed your battery?” Ozzie asked.

  Scoot threw her hands in the air and twirled. “I don’t know. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  Cho stroked his scruffy beard. “You are a curious design, Scoot,” he remarked. “You don’t look like the other motos, you don’t speak like them, and you certainly don’t behave like them. It’s a mystery.”

  “Mystery, mystery!” Scoot cheered. “I want to be Mystery! Can I be Mystery, Creator?” she asked, wobbling in front of Ozzie.

  Ozzie sighed. “I told you—look, let’s just stick with ‘Scoot.’ Okay?”

  “Okeydokey, Creator,” Scoot said. “But—oh!” She came to a sudden halt. Two of her antennae shot upward and her eyes began flashing as her head swiveled 360 degrees.

  “That’s not a good sign,” Fidget said. “What is it now, Glitch-Bucket?”

  “Oh! Glitch-Bucket!” Scoot chirruped. “Can I be Glitch-Bucket, Creator?”

  “No!” Ozzie replied adamantly, throwing an irritated glance in Fidget’s direction. “What’s going on?”

  Scoot tilted forward intently. “Don’t you hear it?”

  “I do!” Tug cried with a whimper, his ears flattening.

  “Motos are mobilizing,” Scoot announced. “I can hear their signals. Uh-oh!”

  She began buzzing around in a frantic circle—she reminded Ozzie of a bumblebee. “What now?” he asked.

  Scoot braked to a halt and held up one of her chunky fingers in a gesture of warning. “They’ve discovered our spot,” she said gravely. “And now they’re coming straight-straight-straight toward us. All of them.”

  16

  The Factory Fights Back

  “All of them?” Ozzie asked the moto. “What do you mean, all of them?”

  “Ninety-nine thousand, three hundred and seventy-eight motos,” Scoot relayed. “That’s every moto in Moton. Unless you count me. Then it’s ninety-nine thousand, three hundred and seventy-nine.”

  “How did they detect us?” Aunt Temperance wondered.

  “They detected me,” Scoot said. “They’re not very pleasey-pleased that you switched me on.”

  “We could always switch you off,” Fidget grumbled.

  “I think it’s time we find that door to Untaar,” Cho announced. “Scoot, do you know the way to the station?”

  “Nope,” the moto replied, her head swiveling around on its base. “But all I need is to find an interface terminal, pluggy-plug in my connectors, and I will.”

  An alarm began to blare, prompting everyone to rush to the edge of the building—even Scoot. Every light on the dome was flashing red. If it had looked like a pimple before, now it was one bursting with motos. They were coming in endless columns, clicking and clacking through the scrap from every direction, filling the junkyard with a thunderous din.

  Ozzie shook his head in disbelief. He had been contemplating the idea of using Captain Traxx’s beacon, but now, staring at the approaching army, he knew there was no way they’d be able to survive until her arrival. The motos might be slow, but they were also relentless.

  “And now there’s thousands of them,” he thought out loud.

  “Ninety-nine thousand, three hundred and seventy-eight, actually,” Tug supplied helpfully.

  Cho craned his neck for a clearer view. “I’ve never seen them behave like this.” He turned back to the group. “Our escape just became a lot more difficult.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in thought. “We need a change of plan. Ozzie and Fidget, you can fly out on Tug. We’ll meet—”

  “No way,” Fidget interrupted. “I thought I made it clear: We stick together.” She shook her blender at them. “I have my essential item. I can handle these oversized tin cans.”

  “You can’t fight the entire moto army with just a blender,” Ozzie argued.

  “We need something more practical,” Aunt Temperance agreed. “Not even the rain seems to slow them down.”
r />   “Motos can handle rain,” Scoot explained. “But thicky-thick is terrible.”

  “Thicky-thick?” Ozzie said. “What do you mean? Like mud?”

  “No, like cement or glue,” Scoot replied.

  “Oh!” Tug exclaimed, his fur turning an excited blue. “We need Gonzo Glue. It’s so cool. I saw a story about it on the TV, and—”

  Aunt Temperance cut him off with a groan. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t pack any glue.”

  “Hmm,” Cho murmured, fishing his canteen from his belt. “What about Arborellian nectar? It’s pretty sticky.”

  “Let’s see!” Scoot said. After taking the canteen from Cho, she undid the lid and poured some on the floor. “It’s going to work okeydokey!”

  “So, what are we going to do?” Fidget wondered crossly. “Pour our way out of here?”

  “Oh—I know!” Scoot whooped, pirouetting with the canteen. She rolled over to Fidget and stuck out a hand toward the blender. “May I take a looky-look?”

  Fidget glanced skeptically at Aunt Temperance, then passed over the appliance. Scoot plugged one of her hands into the base, and the blade instantly began to whir.

  “You can power my blender?!” Aunt Temperance exclaimed.

  “To be precise,” Fidget said, “it’s your engagement ring that’s powering the blender. It’s powering Bucket-Brain here, so . . .”

  “Just need to make some adjustments.” Scoot hummed as she clicked open a panel on her belly—she has secret compartments! Ozzie marveled—and reached inside to pull out a length of hose. Then, using her surprisingly dexterous fingers, she set to work on the blender.

  “What are you doing?!” Aunt Temperance shrieked. “That’s a hundred-dollar appliance you’re destroying!”

  “Aunt T, if we don’t bust our way out of here, it won’t matter how expensive your blender is,” Ozzie said.

  “Besides,” Tug added, “you can get a better blender. I saw this one story on the—”

  “Not now, Tug!” Aunt Temperance scolded.

  Scoot extended one of her fingers and the tip began to glow hot and orange. Then, using it like a torch, she melted a round hole in the side of the pitcher and inserted the canteen so that its endless supply of nectar could spill inside. After briskly adding a switch to regulate flow, Scoot raised the blender triumphantly into the air.