The Guardians of Zoone

by Lee Edward Födi

  Ozzie banged on the tank. “Aunt Temperance!”

  “Do not despair at their state,” Klaxon’s voice boomed over some speaker hidden in the shadows. “The surgeons will come for them soon. They will be motonized and their pain will be no more.”

  Ozzie desperately ran his hands across the surface of Aunt Temperance’s tank, hoping to find a clasp, a lever—anything to release them. Then he pulled out Aunt Temperance’s key from the cord around his neck. Maybe he could use it to stab through the glass.

  Suddenly, a robotic arm extended from the ceiling, plucked him off his feet, and transported him to the chair. Ozzie quickly tucked the key back inside his shirt in an effort to hide it.

  “You may keep the key,” Klaxon’s voice said. “It will not be with you in the simulation.”

  As soon as Ozzie was in the chair, shackles shot up from below, clamping his wrists and ankles down. Then a helmet descended and another metal arm fitted it onto his head. Out of the corners of his eyes, Ozzie could glimpse wires trailing from the sides of the device.

  The helmet began to vibrate, and Ozzie heard Klaxon say, “Calculating. Calculating. Calculating.”

  “Calculating what?” Ozzie demanded.

  “Your current trajectory,” came the reply.

  There was a static buzz, the kind Ozzie was used to hearing when he turned on the ancient TV in Apartment 2B. The next thing he knew, he was no longer in the chair. Or perhaps he was, but it didn’t feel like it. He was standing among the platforms of Zoone—except they were nothing like he knew them.

  Ozzie slowly turned around. Many of the doors were broken, hanging off their frames by mutilated hinges. Some of the doorframes were empty, while others had been reduced to stumps. Beyond the platforms, where the Infinite Wood should be, was nothing more than an empty expanse, an endless field without a tree in sight. Ozzie kept turning until his eyes found the station. It was now entirely navy in color. Even the trim of the windows and doors was navy. The only color at all came from the rust and grime.

  But the worst thing was that the grounds were completely deserted. Not a soul was in sight—that was, until a tiny quirl came limping across the crumbling platform. The rodent paused in front of Ozzie, and he knelt to pick her up. It was the same one that had gone on the mission with him and Fidget. He could tell from her one bent ear. But now she was scrawny and missing patches of fur. Ozzie wished he had some morsel of food to give her, but the only thing he could do was cradle the piteous creature against his chest.

  He stood and slowly turned, taking everything in. The nexus was dying. Its magic was fading. The multiverse was fragmenting, which meant worlds would lose their connection to one another.

  “What have you done?!” he yelled.

  “The Machine has estimated the course of events based on their current trajectory,” Klaxon’s voice called, seemingly from the heavens. “The nexus is one hundred percent motonized. And you feel alone.”

  Ozzie swallowed and peered down at the quirl, only to realize that she had died in his hands. Trying to hold back tears, he set the rodent’s body gently on the cracked cobblestones.

  “This causes you pain?”

  “You know it does!” Ozzie screamed. “You did this! You and your motos.”

  “This simulation is not about assigning blame. It is about choice. Do you wish to proceed on this path? Or do you wish to choose another? Of course, you will soon discover that pain and suffering are inevitable. I must remind you that if you become moto, none of this will matter. Join us, human boy, and you will be relieved of your despair.”

  “I don’t want to be a moto,” Ozzie hissed through his teeth.

  “You will change your mind,” Klaxon said calmly—and ominously. “We can go backward, forward—sideways even. Such is the power of the Destiny Machine’s simulations. You can pick any alternate path you desire. Is that what you wish?”

  “Yes,” Ozzie said immediately, mustering his resolve. Because, he added to himself, I’m going to beat you.

  There was another static flash and Ozzie was dropped onto a different platform. Instead of the cobblestones of Zoone, there was just a flat black surface beneath his feet. He was surrounded by countless doors, all slowly spinning around him, floating in an abysmal darkness.

  “Where am I?” Ozzie wondered.

  “You are still in the simulation,” Klaxon’s voice explained. “You can think of it as a nexus of its own sort. These doors do not lead to places, but to points in your timeline. Ask a question and the answer will be calculated.”

  The doors were all different shapes and sizes. Ozzie could see that some were made of old and weathered wood, while others were sparkling with polished metal. They were different colors, and each was covered with a series of symbols. There were so many of them. How could he possibly decide?

  “What do you mean ‘a question’?” Ozzie asked Klaxon. “What kind of question?”

  “A what-if question,” the moto-man replied over the speaker. “What if I did better in school? What if I had never gone to Zoone? That sort of question.”

  Ozzie frowned. What I need is to defeat this contraption. The question’s the key. Ask the right question. Find the right door. The right path.

  He exhaled.

  How could he defeat the Machine? Aunt Temperance and Cho had both failed.

  Maybe the simulation wears you down, Ozzie pondered. So what if I had never gone to Zoone? That doesn’t change Klaxon’s inhumanity. Or Aunt T’s sadness. Or . . .

  Then it occurred to him.

  “I have my question,” he announced.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to know what would happen if you and Aunt Temperance did get married.”

  A terrible noise exploded over the speaker, like the sound of a car with worn brakes screeching to a halt. It took a moment for Ozzie to realize that it had come from Klaxon.

  “That is unacceptable!” the moto-man thundered. “You must ask a question about your own life.”

  “How is that not a question about my life?” Ozzie argued. “If you and Aunt T had gotten married, it would have completely changed mine.”

  “I demand a different question.”

  “What does it matter?” Ozzie asked. “If all paths lead to pain, what does it matter if I go down this one?”

  At first, only silence greeted Ozzie. He turned slowly in the darkness, staring at the swirling doors.

  “You think you are clever,” Klaxon eventually replied. “But your human brain is imperfect. You will see. Very well. I accept your question. Calculating . . . calculating . . . here is your-your-your door.”

  One of the portals approached Ozzie; the others grew small, then faded away. The door before Ozzie was plain and wooden. It was the dullest of doors, without trim, ornamentation, or even a scuff mark.

  Ozzie stepped forward and gripped the simple metal handle.

  “You asked for it,” Klaxon’s voice grated. “And so you have it.”

  Ozzie woke up in his bedroom. At least he thought it was his bedroom. It had all his things in it, though something about it didn’t feel quite right. He climbed out of bed and made his way to the window. He looked out and saw a familiar street below. Yes, this was the building he lived in, the Ulysses Apartments, but something felt slightly off about the view. Actually, it wasn’t exactly the view. It was the perspective . . .

  He turned around and considered his room again: the clean white walls, the shiny hardwood floor, and the fashionable furniture. This is my room all right, he thought. His father owned the entire building, and that included the stylish penthouse apartment on the top floor. His parents were gone most of the time, but this was still their “official residence,” as they liked to call it.

  Ozzie shook his head. He knew all this, but he had the vague idea that he had been somewhere else in his dreams, somewhere special. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Whatever it was, it was quickly slipping away, so he wandered down the hallway to the kitchen.


  “Thought you would sleep all day,” Miss Blunt grumbled, because she was the sort of person who thought kindness was a rare commodity and shouldn’t be spent frivolously.

  “Had a weird dream,” Ozzie said as he took a seat at the breakfast bar. Miss Blunt had conveniently set the pamphlet for Dreerdum’s Boarding School for Boys there. Ozzie frowned and pushed it away.

  Miss Blunt set a plate of toast in front of him. “You’re going to have to face it sooner or later.”

  “Later,” Ozzie said. “That place looks awful.”

  Miss Blunt grunted. “Wish I’d had rich parents to waste all that money on my education.”

  “I’d rather have parents who were here,” Ozzie protested. “They’re always traveling. I’m stuck here.”

  “Not anymore, you’re not,” Miss Blunt reminded him. “Soon, you’re off to Dreerdum’s. Looks like I’ll be seeking new employment. And a new home.”

  There was annoyance in her tone, which kind of confused Ozzie. She continually griped about her job as a live-in nanny. He wondered why she didn’t just find a different job. If I had the power to switch my life, I’d do it in a heartbeat, he thought as he stared glumly at the pamphlet. There was still something niggling at his brain, but he wasn’t sure what. “I’d rather go to Zoone!” he blurted out.

  “What’s that?” Miss Blunt said. “Another one of them worlds in those video games you play?”

  “I’m not sure,” Ozzie admitted. He suddenly realized he was groping at the collar of his shirt, like he expected something to be dangling there.

  “Don’t forget, your aunt and uncle are coming tonight,” Miss Blunt announced.

  “My aunt and uncle?”

  “Yes, long-lost crazy Aunt Temperance,” she huffed impatiently. “Don’t you remember? You’re spending Saturday with her, so don’t be making any plans with friends. Oh, right. We don’t have to worry about that, do we, ‘Mr. Popular’?”

  Ozzie sank into his chair, her sarcasm cutting him to the bone. No friends, no plans. But he was slightly excited about the prospect of meeting his aunt. She had never visited—that he could remember, anyway—but he somehow had this feeling that he would like her.

  “How come she’s never visited before?”

  Miss Blunt leaned over the breakfast bar and shrugged. “Traveling around the world with the circus and that weirdo husband of hers. Mercurio. What kind of name is that, anyway?”

  Ozzie tugged at his shirt collar again. “Aunt Temperance is still in the circus?”

  “What do you mean ‘still’?”

  “I don’t know,” Ozzie admitted. “I just had this idea that she had an office job.”

  Miss Blunt nearly spat out her mouthful of coffee. “Your aunt? I think that sounds just a little too tied-down and responsible for the likes of her. Airy-fairy hippie. That’s what your parents always say, anyway.”

  School that day was atrocious. Or, to put it another way, the usual. Ozzie hurried home, rushed to the door, meaning to barge through excitedly to see if his aunt had already arrived.

  But the door was locked.

  Which was strange. Miss Blunt was supposed to be home. He jiggled the handle, only to look up and see the number on the door.

  2B. He was at completely the wrong apartment.

  What am I doing down here? he thought.

  Ozzie frowned, turned away, and stared at the door on the opposite side of the hallway, just a bit farther down. It had no number on it, which meant it didn’t belong to an apartment. Curious, Ozzie wandered over, tried the door, and found himself gazing down a spiraling set of stairs.

  What’s down there? he asked himself. Definitely not a parking garage. This basement looks like it was built before the invention of the car. Maybe even the wheel.

  The bottom of the staircase was lost in shadow, causing a slight shiver to meander down Ozzie’s neck. Then he heard the knock; it was loud and hollow and floated up the steps like a moan. Ozzie instinctively jumped back and slammed the door shut.

  “Yikes!” he muttered to himself before racing up the stairs to the penthouse (the building was so incredibly ancient that it had no elevator—a constant source of complaint by Miss Blunt).

  “What’s gotten into you?” Miss Blunt demanded as he barged into the penthouse.

  “Um . . . nothing. Is Aunt T here yet?”

  “Aunt T?”

  “Yeah. Aunt Temperance, I mean.”

  Miss Blunt sighed. “She called. Got delayed; won’t arrive till late.”

  That was a disappointment, but Ozzie decided to wait up. He stayed in his room, blasting his way through rounds of Zombie Killer II on his gaming console. At some point, he must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, he was jerking awake to the sound of the apartment buzzer. He raced out of his room to see Miss Blunt greeting Aunt Temperance at the door.

  As soon as he saw her, Ozzie froze, suddenly feeling shy. For some reason, he had imagined her to look a certain way, and what he saw in front of him didn’t match. He had expected her to have glasses, but she didn’t. Then there was her hair, which had a stylish pixie cut. She was wearing capri pants, a vibrant green blouse, and a long, patterned scarf. She looked, for lack of a better word, cool.

  “You must be Oswald,” Aunt Temperance greeted him. She moved to hug him, but he stepped away. He was a little old for hugging.

  “Most people call me Ozzie,” he said, which made Miss Blunt snort, because it was a complete and utter lie.

  Aunt Temperance nodded. “Ozzie. The last time I laid eyes on you—well, let’s just say you were probably too young to remember. But I remember. And I’ve been filled with excitement to see you again.”

  Something tingled inside of Ozzie. Excitement wasn’t exactly the word that occurred to most people when they thought about him. Disappointment—sure. Punching bag—yes. But not excitement. He felt his inhibitions slinking away and when Aunt Temperance tried for another hug, he gave in.

  It was only now that he noticed the man standing out in the hallway, clutching a suitcase. He was tall and handsome and after stepping confidently through the door, he leaned in and smiled at Ozzie with glinting white teeth.

  “Hello, son,” he greeted him. “I’m your uncle. Uncle Mercurio.”

  28

  Klaxon Closes the Door

  Ozzie gawked at the peculiar man. He had never seen anyone like Uncle Mercurio, not in real life anyway. His hair was a tangle of whimsical black curls, tipped with bright scarlet, while his blue eyes twinkled with a hint of mystery. He had an easy, friendly smile and his clothes were a wild combination of flared cuffs and ornate patterns. He looked like a magician or a movie star. It was no wonder he worked in the circus.

  Ozzie instantly liked him.

  “Nice to meet you, Ozzie,” Uncle Mercurio said, extending his hand.

  Ozzie shook it enthusiastically. “You, too!” He turned back to Aunt Temperance. “Do you have a key?” he blurted out, though he wasn’t sure where the question had come from.

  “A key?” Aunt Temperance wondered, glancing hesitantly at Miss Blunt. “A key for what?”

  “I don’t know,” Ozzie confessed. “A key with a ‘Z’ on it.”

  “Oh!” Aunt Temperance exclaimed. “My grandfather gave me that key—that’s your great-grandfather, Ozzie: Augustus Sparks.” She tilted her head inquisitively. “How do you know about it?”

  Ozzie frowned. The truth was, he wasn’t sure.

  “It’s not the sort of thing I wanted to take on the road with me,” Aunt Temperance explained. “I think it’s packed away in storage.”

  “Don’t worry about an old heirloom like that,” Uncle Mercurio told Ozzie. “We’ve brought you gifts.”

  “I was going to give them to him in the morning,” Aunt Temperance said with a hint of disapproval.

  Uncle Mercurio put his arm around her. “Come on, Tempie. Let’s give them now.”

  “Oh, all right.” She rustled through a bag and produced a set
of comic books and a chunky robot figure. “The books are manga,” Aunt Temperance said. “I got them when we were on tour in Japan.”

  “I mostly like video games,” Ozzie told her, which he realized a moment later was a bit rude, so he tucked the manga under his arm and took the robot. It was heavy, made with actual metal.

  “It’s an automaton,” Aunt Temperance explained. “Mercurio builds them himself. He has his own sideshow at our circus: Mercurio’s Menagerie of Mechanized Marvels!”

  Ozzie turned the figure around in his hands to see a tiny wind-up key protruding from its side. He was too old for toys, especially ones that looked like they had come from an antique shop, but he decided to crank the key.

  “Up-down-up-up-down,” the automaton chimed.

  “Huh?” Ozzie muttered.

  Uncle Mercurio leaned over to examine the automaton in Ozzie’s hands. “Hmm. It’s not supposed to say that! Not to worry. Merely a malfunction. I’ll tinker with it tomorrow.”

  “This is the part where he tells you he can fix anything,” Aunt Temperance said lightheartedly. “Or he’ll tell you about the time he once built a machine to save the environment.”

  “Oh?” Miss Blunt wondered. “You’d think something like that would have made the news.”

  “It’s still in development,” Uncle Mercurio admitted, blushing. “Maybe one day I’ll sort it out.”

  “Come on then,” Miss Blunt said, ushering them farther into the apartment. “I’ll show you the spare room. It’s getting late, Oswald. Off to bed with you.”

  “We’ll see you in the morning,” Aunt Temperance assured him, giving him another hug.

  Ozzie meandered down the hall and set the automaton on his bedside table. It was a peculiar thing, with giant, protruding teeth and round, vacant eyes.

  If there are nerd robots, then this one’s the queen of them, he thought—though he wasn’t quite sure why he had decided it was a girl.

  Miss Blunt didn’t need to rouse Ozzie, even though it was Saturday morning. Ozzie usually liked to stay cocooned in bed on weekends (well, admittedly, school days, too), but today was different. He had company! The dull routine of the penthouse had been disrupted for once.