Creatch Battler

by Mark Crilley

  Don't let go don't let go don't let go “Why…won't…you…FALL?”

  Twain sent the bike into a stomach-churning corkscrew. Everything turned into a whirling blur.

  Billy held on to the exhaust pipe, clenching his fingers around it.

  After what must have been a dozen spins, Twain leveled the bike off and growled with frustration.

  “All right!” He unzipped his breast pocket. “I'll deal with you later.” He pulled out the detonator.

  No! He's going to set it off NOW!

  Billy climbed up and grabbed hold of Twain's arm. Twain elbowed Billy back and flipped open a protective cover on the detonator. Beneath it was a numerical keypad. Twain clearly would have preferred having two hands free to work the thing, but he needed one arm to hold the bike steady.

  Billy tried again to snatch the detonator out of Twain's hand. This time Twain elbowed him right in the face, sending him tumbling back into the delivery basket.

  “Nngh!”

  By the time Billy got back up, Twain was already punching a sequence of numbers into the detonator.

  Billy grabbed Twain's arm with both hands. The bike wobbled wildly in the air.

  “Drop it, Twain!” he shouted. “Drop. It!”

  Billy didn't get the detonator out of Twain's hand, but he at least managed to make him push the wrong buttons.

  “You little freak!” cried Twain. “Now I've got to start all over again!”

  Twain elbowed Billy once more in the face. This time it really hurt. Billy was running out of stamina, and running out of hope. It was only a matter of time before Twain would punch in the right sequence of numbers and the Taj Mahal would be gone.

  Billy made one more grab for the detonator and got one more elbow in the face. The bike rocked violently.

  This isn't working. There's got to be some other way to stop him …

  Stop him…

  The detention cuff !

  Billy reached into his pocket. There it was, just where he'd put it when he'd hidden from Twain in the cave.

  He pulled it out, opened it, leaped up, and snapped it around Twain's wrist.

  FZZZIIIIIITCH! “Yaaaaaah!”

  Twain's fingers splayed spastically as he tried to maintain his grip on the detonator. Billy reached out, pulled it from Twain's hand, and tucked it safely into his own pocket. The bike started spinning chaotically through the air and—even worse— began to lose altitude.

  Now comes the tough part.

  Moving as quickly as he could, Billy began pulling Twain's tense body back into the crate. He grabbed Twain by the shoul-

  ders and heaved him backward, the bike rocking crazily all the while. Twain howled with every move, the detention cuff shooting relentless shock waves through his body. When Billy went to move Twain's legs, he nearly ended up throwing him off the bike entirely: only a last-second save by Billy kept Twain from freefalling all the way down into the streets of Agra. It took every last ounce of energy Billy had—and a further loss of precious altitude—but at last he got Twain where he wanted him. Panting and wiping the sweat from his face, Billy took his place in the driver's seat.

  Billy knew all about riding motorbikes, but being behind the controls of a flying motorbike was definitely a first. Fortunately it turned out to be pretty simple: he turned the handlebars in the direction he wanted to go, and the bike took him there. There was a lever for altitude, but otherwise it was pretty similar to all the motorcycle video games Billy had played over the years. Soon the Taj Mahal was back in his field of vision.

  Twain groaned and bellowed as they made their way back. He even made a few desperate attempts to interfere with Billy's steering. But the detention cuff was—as Twain himself had said—in good working order. After two or three electrical shocks so powerful they frightened passing birds, Twain finally collapsed into the delivery basket and became as timid as a baby in a crib. The rest of the flight was uneventful.

  When he steered the bike down into the Taj Mahal complex, Billy realized that the brake pedal wasn't working properly. He managed to slow the bike down, but there was no way he'd be able to bring it to a complete stop.

  Gotta improvise.

  He pointed the bike in the direction of the largest, leafiest tree in the complex and hoped its branches weren't as hard as they looked. Within seconds it grew from a tree in the distance to a big, blurred wall of leaves.

  “Yaaaaaaaaa!” “Billy!” he heard his parents cry just before he, Twain, and the bike plunged into the treetop. Billy flew off the driver's seat, barreled through thirty feet of leaves and branches, and somersaulted out the other side. Flailing his arms and legs in all directions, he tumbled into the middle of a large hedge at the border of a nearby walkway.

  A few seconds later, after Jim and Linda pulled Billy out and carried him to a soft patch of grass nearby, they found him in a wretched state. His head, neck, arms, and hands were scraped and cut in more places than could be counted. He was bruised. He was battered. He was bleeding.

  He was also smiling. “I did it,” he said. “I saved the Taj Mahal.”

  The worried expressions on his parents' faces gave way to big toothy grins.

  “That you did, my boy,” said Jim. “That you did.”

  Linda leaned over and found one of the few unscratched places on Billy's cheek to plant a kiss. She tried to say something but ended up just shaking her head and laughing in a way that was hard to distinguish from crying.

  With the help of Ravi Goswami and his men, Jim Clikk retrieved Twain and his motorbike from the top of the tree. Twain was bad shape too, maybe even worse than Billy.

  Billy watched as his father held Twain down and snapped an extra detention cuff on him for good measure.

  “Would your father really have approved of any of this, Twain?” asked Jim. “He was crooked, but at least he knew whose side he was on.”

  Twain ignored this remark. “You haven't seen the last of me, Clikk!” he growled. “They won't keep me locked up forever. I'll be back. And remember,” he added, training his eyes on Billy, “I know where you live.”

  A large squadron of Affys had arrived not long after Billy's dramatic return, and now they took Twain into custody. The last Billy saw of him was his struggling body being carried into an AFMEC transport vehicle disguised as an Indian garbage truck.

  “So Twain was a mole,” said Billy. “He was trying to bring AFMEC down from the inside.”

  “Hard to believe, isn't it?” Jim put his arm around Billy's shoulder and they walked slowly through the gardens together. “He was one of the hardest-working Affys of them all. I thought it was all in the service of clearing the family name. Now I can see he was obsessed with one thing and one thing only: wreaking vengeance upon Mr. Vriffnee and the entire AFMEC organization.

  “See, there's been a slew of Affy creatch ops that have ended disastrously in the last few years,” said Jim. “I'll bet Twain had a hand in all of them. Imagine if he'd succeeded in destroying the Taj Mahal and blaming it on AFMEC.” Jim grimaced. “I don't think the organization could have recovered from something like that.”

  “Do you think agents got killed because of Twain?”

  Jim paused before answering. “I don't know. It's certainly possible. You can be sure AFMEC will be conducting a thorough investigation to find out.”

  “What's going to happen to him now? Will he go to jail?” “There's a facility for agents like him in AFMECopolis. He'll get a chance to start over again, to reform himself and rejoin regular society. But he's going to be stripped of his Affy status—just like his father was—for life. And AFMEC will be

  keeping an eye on him until he's old and gray, you can bank on that.”

  “So what's his real name?” asked Billy. “Not Twain, right?” Jim snickered. “Orville Q. Lumpkins.” “Ooh. No wonder he chose a code name.”

  Jim and Billy walked—limped, in Billy's case—back to the plaza surrounding the Taj Mahal. There they found that Linda had injected the
orf with a local anesthetic in preparation for removing Twain's remote-control torture device. At her feet was a case containing an array of scalpels and other surgical tools. Linda had also made an important discovery, which she announced to them both in an excited whisper.

  “She's pregnant.”

  Billy's eyes widened. “The orf? No way! I thought it was a guy.”

  “Yeah, well, it's kinda hard to tell, isn't it?” The giant black beast groaned as Linda began making the necessary incisions. “I should have known by the change in eye color. Pregnant creatches have darker eyes. They also experience a dramatic rise in intelligence during the months prior to childbirth. It's an evolutionary quirk: a temporary change in brain chemistry that allows the creatch to choose the best possible place in which to raise her offspring, thereby ensuring the survival of the species.”

  “I get it,” said Billy. “So Twain went looking for a pregnant creatch to begin with, one that would be smart enough for him to train.”

  “That's right. Between Twain's knowledge of creatch behavior in general and this little remote-control ‘cattle prod,’ he had everything he needed to turn this orf into his own personal servant. He just didn't count on the increased sense of compassion that came with the orf's boost in intelligence. The orf feared the suffering Twain was able to inflict on her, but—as you discovered—she never really wanted to hurt anyone.”

  “Wow. So what are we going to do with it…I mean, her …now that the mission's over?”

  “She's a ground creatch, Billy. She belongs in her natural habitat deep beneath the earth. The only time orfs come to the surface is when there's a subterranean crisis like an earthquake. Or when a creep like Twain drags them into one of his crackpot schemes.”

  “You mean Orville Q. Lumpkins?” Billy grinned. “Don't make fun of people's names, Billy,” said Linda. “It's not nice.”

  Billy took a long last look at the orf. Even in broad daylight, she was a pretty fearsome beast: big, hairy, sharp-toothed monsters are pretty intimidating no matter how friendly or

  pregnant they may be. But it was also a thrill to be standing next to something so huge and otherworldly.

  My first creatch op, thought Billy. Sure as heck won't be my last, though.

  “Take care,” he said, reaching up to pat its head.

  The orf opened its mouth and belched loudly. Out came the same cloud of greenish brown smoke and its accompanying awful stench.

  “Ugh. Don't take this personally, but all in all, you staying miles beneath the earth's surface is not a bad thing.”

  Minutes later the orf crawled back into the Taj Mahal, where it disappeared into the hole, tunneled back down to the world it had come from, and, presumably, got ready to start a nice big orf family.

  Within minutes Ravi Goswami's crew of artisans were hard at work filling in the hole and restoring the Taj Mahal to its former glory.

  “Thank you once again, Mr. and Mrs. Clikk,” said Ravi as one of his assistants brought around glasses of chai on a tray. “And thank you, Billy. You have proven every bit as resourceful as your parents. The family business is in good hands. I strongly recommend, however,” he added, motioning toward the severely damaged tree behind him, “that you investigate other means of landing a flying motorbike.”

  TEEP

  Jim Clikk pulled out his viddy-fone. “Yes, Mr. Vriffnee…” “Thank you, Mr. Vriffnee. It was our pleasure.” “Well, nothing that time and a few dozen bandages won't heal.”

  “Yes, he's right here beside me.” “Certainly.”

  Jim Clikk handed the viddy-fone to his son.

  Billy's heart beat faster as he held the viddy-fone in his palm. He'd been wanting a new cell phone for ages (his parents refused to buy him a new one after he smashed his Motorola to pieces while skateboarding down the steps of the Piffling Public Library). Now, though, peering into the paper-thin blue video screen resting in his hand, he knew he could never settle for anything less than his own viddy-fone.

  Mr. Vriffnee, his face no more than an inch from top to bottom, was staring out at him. He was frowning.

  “Highly irregular what you did today, young man. I don't even want to count how many AFMEC rules you violated.”

  Billy swallowed. “I shudder to think what kind of mess we'd be in if every Affy's kid started behaving like you do. You have shown a blatant disregard for AFMEC procedure every step of the way.”

  Billy swallowed again. “You have also helped to save AFMEC—to say nothing of the Taj Mahal—from a very serious threat.”

  Billy was too stunned to smile. He just stood there like a statue: a statue with a viddy-fone in its hand.

  “And for that I thank you.”

  Billy knew he had remained silent for too long. “I…I don't know what to say, sir.”

  Mr. Vriffnee's mouth moved in the direction of a smile. “I think you're welcome is the usual response.” “You're welcome, sir.” “And stop calling me sir. You can't get out of mispronouncing my name that easily.”

  Billy felt his face grow warm. Jim and Linda chuckled. “That's all for now, Billy. Your parents will be bringing you back to AFMECopolis shortly. First comes the cleanup operation.”

  “Yes, Mr. Vriffnee.” “Normally in these circumstances I would force you to do it alone. Today, however—by special request—I am sending an Affy out to assist you. She'll be there shortly.”

  She?

  Ana García arrived within half an hour. She had asked permission to help Billy with his first cleanup operation, and Mr. Vriffnee, in recognition of the fine work she and her parents had just completed in Vladivostok, granted her wish.

  “You can't just move the brush back and forth like that, you know,” she said. They were washing green goo off the floors of the Taj Mahal using buckets, scrub brushes, and a special AFMEC-developed detergent that came in surprisingly ordinary-looking spray bottles. It was the hottest part of the day, and even the shadows of the Taj weren't enough to keep them both from sweating profusely. “Circular motions work best. Trust me. I've had to do a lot of this the last few years.”

  It was the kind of comment that would have driven Billy

  up the wall the first time he met her. It still did, actually. Just slightly less so, for some reason.

  “So, Ana,” said Billy, “do you think they'll make me a fulltime Affy like you? I mean, come on. I saved this place from getting blown to bits. That's gotta count for something.”

  “You don't know AFMEC like I do, Billy.” Ana grunted as she worked at a particularly difficult stain. “You could have saved the entire planet and they'd still check the books to make sure you followed the right procedures. If you're really lucky,” she added, “they'll put you on track to become an Affy-intraining within the next six months.”

  “Six months ?” Billy dunked his brush into his bucket so forcefully he created a small waterfall of suds. “Jeez, no wonder Twain had it in for these guys. Maybe I should switch sides.”

  Ana chuckled. “I know. Sometimes I think being a creatch would be a lot more fun. I know some kids at school I wouldn't mind chewing up and spitting out.”

  “Whoa,” said Billy with an exaggerated expression of shock. “You're scarin' me here, Ana. Good thing I'm your friend and not your enemy.”

  Ana laughed out loud. “You don't know the half of it. I've been through AFMEC hand-to-hand combat training. I could break you in two right now if I wanted.” She smiled, but Billy sensed it was no lie.

  “Dang,” he said, scrubbing with renewed vigor, “I've got a lot of work ahead of me.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Several hours later Billy, Ana, and both of their families flew back to AFMECopolis. There they joined an intimate group of high-ranking Affys who had gathered for a small ceremony at one end of Vigilance Park, a leafy expanse of green at the center of the vast underwater complex. A small wooden stage stood before two rows of folding chairs and a table topped by a punch bowl and three platters of vita-dogs, hypersprouts, and doz
ens of other dishes packed with vitamins, minerals, and very little flavor.

  Jim, Linda, and Billy sat in the front row. They were wearing fresh AFMEC uniforms, and Billy's wounds were neatly bandaged, having been dressed by a nurse at the towering AFMEC medical complex half an hour before. (“Orf saliva and mulberry leaves,” she'd said as she cleaned Billy up. “Interesting combination.”) Seated in the second row were Fernando García and his family, along with a dozen other Affys Billy had just been introduced to.

  The small group quieted as Mr. Vriffnee strode up to the stage and tested the podium's microphone.

  TUP TUP TUP

  “Good afternoon.”

  Billy sat up straight. It wasn't easy to do—his scratches and bruises still stung pretty badly—but this was not an occasion to slouch through.

  “My fellow Affys. I'm sure you're all familiar with the story of Antonio Valoroso, the great fourteenth-century Italian creatch battler who saved the Tower of Pisa—in the very nick of time—from being toppled by a band of renegade amphibious sea creatches.

  “Today we have before us a group of people who have done something every bit as remarkable. They have saved the Taj Mahal from ruin and ferreted out one of the most heinous double agents ever to infiltrate this organization. Would you please join me in welcoming to this stage the Clikk family: Jim, Linda, Billy, and their adopted demi-creatch, Orzamo.”

  There was a quiet but warm round of applause as Jim and Linda rose, followed by Billy and Orzamo.

  “Now, before we have you all say a few words,” said Mr. Vriffnee, adjusting the microphone's height for Billy, “there's a little something I'd like to present to Billy on behalf of the entire organization.”

  Louise, the frumpy-looking secretary from the elevator video screen, stepped forward from the audience and handed something to Mr. Vriffnee. It was like a miniature briefcase, made of lacquered cherry wood with brass fittings. A plaque on one side was etched with bold letters: