They spent hours on the computer for the remainder of the day. Sam had never had so much computer time before, ever. When Freddie went downstairs for his supper, Sam stayed online, researching, exploring, learning. Then he sat and worked through Freddie’s homework as he waited for his new lifelong best friend forever to reappear.
When Freddie returned, he carried a plate of cheese and cookies and a shiny red, ripe apple. As he opened his bedroom door, a large tabby cat dived through the opening and skidded to a stop in surprise when it caught sight of Sam. Before the cat had managed to bring itself to a standstill, Sam had donned his leather and Kevlon—a mix of Kevlar and Teflon, lightweight and protective against most weapons—waistcoat and was holding his short sword under the cat’s jaw, the point almost piercing the intruder’s skin. Freddie stood still, almost as shocked as the cat.
“Listen, you bundle of fur and whiskers,” Sam warned the cat. “We will get on very well if you just leave me alone. Now go.” He added extra words in a voice too high for Freddie to hear, although they were apparently understood by the cat. It looked away and shook each hind leg in turn. The body language, when translated, approximated “I have stepped in it up to my tail and I need to get out carefully.” The cat slowly backed out of the room, blinking rapidly in Sam’s direction, without making eye contact. It was a very submissive and apologetic exit.
“Well,” said Freddie as he set the plate down. “I had wondered what would happen when you met Tabby. Now I know. Sorry about the invasion, he jumped in before I realized he was there. Here, this is our supper. You can eat whatever you like, I can get more.”
Days passed. Freddie went to school each weekday, and Sam stayed at his new home where he explored the Net; and when he thought the house was empty, he explored it from top to bottom. Fortunately, whenever he ventured outside Freddie’s bedroom, Tabby was nowhere to be seen. Eventually, he found his way to the shed where Freddie’s uncle worked almost every evening.
He slipped into the shed through a small gap under a side door and stood and gaped. The shed was full of airplanes. They hung from the ceiling, they were scattered on the floor, they were pinned to the walls, they filled every nook and cranny. There were biplanes and triplanes, single and multi-engine craft, amphibians, jets, fighters, helicopters, transporters—indeed, just about every possible type of plane Sam had ever read about. He stepped carefully around the large workroom, examining every model with utter adoration. His eyes were round. He had discovered paradise. He stepped over to the workbench and climbed up the side, using a chair for support. Plans were spread out on the bench and he paced around them, reading and absorbing every detail.
“Your uncle is building a Spitfire,” he shouted as he almost attacked Freddie when he returned from school. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is probably the most important thing ever!”
“What is a Spitfire?” queried Freddie, who was not really an airplane buff. He knew his uncle built model aircraft; however, his preference was starships, like the one belonging to the Shen refugees, not ancient aircraft which could not fly. “It will be only a model, and they are not very interesting.”
“Not very interesting! Come with me.” He tugged at Freddie, urging him towards the door. “Come on. I’ll show you. I thought everyone knew Spitfires were airplanes used, oh—over a hundred years ago.” He did not mention he had no idea of what a Spitfire was, either, until he had seen the plans and drawings in the shed and read the accompanying notes.
“Shhh,” cautioned Freddie. “Uncle Charles will be there, now.”
“You can carry me inside your jacket. Your uncle will never know.”
Freddie was reluctant; however, Sam’s enthusiasm and insistence combined to persuade him. It was either take him or continue to deal with an over-excited, almost hysterical Rat. Freddie donned a jacket; it was cold outside and fortunately, the jacket had very deep inside pockets. Sam climbed into a pocket and the pair headed down the stairs and outside to the work shed.
“It’s me, Uncle,” announced Freddie as he slammed the door closed. He ignored the flutter of paper as the wind lifted a plan off the workbench. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to work on these plans,” grumbled Freddie’s Uncle Charles. “Except they keep blowing away. They were all over the place this afternoon. Some of your work, perhaps?”
“Er—well,” Freddie stuttered, as his companion twisted around in the deep pocket. “Er—yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere with your work.”
“I thought it must have been. No one else was likely to be here.” Charles resumed stacking the large sheets of paper.
“What are they for?”
“I’m building a replica Spitfire,” Freddie’s uncle announced. “It will be one-third scale, not full size.”
Sam wriggled in excitement, and Freddie hoped his uncle had not noticed his jacket had moved.
“A Spitfire? What is a Spitfire—and why build something that won’t fly?”
“It is a very famous aircraft. This one will fly.” He patted the plans. “The original was about 36 feet long and had a top speed of up to 450 mph. It was a warplane and saved Britain against its enemies in the second Great War in the middle of the twentieth century, so that’s—what?—a hundred and fifty or more years ago. This scaled down design is twelve feet long and it will be very fast. I plan on adding rocket assists and they should really boost her speed. Not a genuine replica really. It will have some design and colour variations, and the engine will be electric. However, it will be similar to the original aircraft.”
Not only was Freddie’s uncle in his element, he had an audience—although he did not realize it consisted of two members. Freddie, on reflection, decided he wanted to be involved in the construction of a replica which really flew, especially if it had rockets as well as a propeller. Sam, who was listening intently, his need for caution forgotten, lifted his head to peer out from the front of Freddie’s jacket.
“Look, I have some photos,” Charles said. “This one was built last year. It has a top speed of two hundred miles per hour. Radio controlled, which is never as good as having a real pilot, of course. Here, this one is part finished. A friend of mine has started to build this one—see here, he has just a collection of parts—although he expects to be flying by the end of the year. They’re all powered by electric motors, which are far more efficient than the old petrol-based engines.”
Sam wanted to see the photographs and climbed up the inside of the jacket and of course over-balanced, falling onto the floor.
“Oops,” exclaimed Freddie. Sam squeaked his apology.
“Well, what’s this?” Freddie’s uncle peered over his spectacles at the intruder. “You wouldn’t be the young intruder who was in my shed earlier today, would you?” He turned towards Freddie, who was feeling even smaller than usual. “I didn’t mention it, because you normally aren’t in here. I have cameras set up to monitor any movement in the shed. These are expensive models, and I wouldn’t like to lose them or have them damaged. This young fellow certainly was showing a lot of interest—excitement, perhaps?—in what he saw today.” He raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation. “I replayed the video a number of times before I was convinced he wasn’t somehow part of a childish prank.”
Sam and Freddie both tried to speak at once. The second time, Sam succeeded.
“I only touched the plans,” he said. “I tried to be very careful.”
“Hmmm. I’ve seen details of—what are they called?—oh yes, New Rats, on television. Last Sunday, the English PM was on Sunday Talking Points, discussing the need to change some of our laws, to treat Rats as a new type of intelligent being. So you’re one of those? One of the Rats who’ve learned to speak?”
Sam nodded his reply.
“Well, indeed.” Charles scratched his head. “Now would you tell me why these plans have so much interest for you? And does Alice—Freddie’s Mum—know you’re staying with us?”
Sam tried to explain h
is excitement. Although Rats were flightless, they somehow had an ingrained desire to achieve flight. This desire, this urge, seemed to be in their DNA; at least it was in their altered and evolved DNA. Ever since Cedric, the first Rat King, had introduced hang gliding—and even perhaps before then—New Rats had wanted to fly. Sam had a hunger for flight and his hunger was now unleashed.
***
Chapter 9
The first thing Freddie’s uncle did when they returned to the house was introduce Sam to Alice, Freddie’s Mum. Charles explained how Freddie had befriended Sam and invited him to visit, and now Sam had discovered airplanes. For some inexplicable reason any need to check with Sam’s parents was overlooked in the excitement and explanations. Finally, Alice decided the young Rat could stay as long as Freddie maintained his school grades.
Young Sam and Freddie were very enthusiastic helpers, as Charles soon discovered. When Freddie arrived home from school, they spent two or more hours working through all of Freddie’s homework exercises and then, after they had their supper, they invaded the shed where Freddie’s uncle was preparing to build his scale replica Spitfire. Young Sam had not realized how much work was involved in making the components defined in the blueprints, nor had he appreciated the need to understand precisely how the aircraft would function. He was astounded when Freddie’s uncle told him about all the other subjects he would need to study for his pilot’s license.
As a result, Sam had commenced working through Freddie’s lessons and homework exercises in all the subjects Freddie was studying. Soon he was leading Freddie through his homework, racing ahead of the school’s syllabus, as he caught up with and overtook his young friend. He also worked every day on the computer while Freddie was at school, and as a result his programming skills had improved remarkably.
One afternoon Freddie came home from school with a curious story to tell.
“I saw a black cat on my way home,” he explained to Sam. “It was very strange. It was far larger than Tabby and it looked like it was wearing a uniform.”
Sam’s ears pricked up. “Where did you see this cat?”
“Well, I thought I saw one this morning when I was half way to school. Then, this afternoon, I glimpsed another one at the end of our street.”
Sam reached for his small cell phone. He kept it fully charged, and Freddie had often wondered why his friend had never used it to make calls. Sam keyed in a number and held the phone to his ear.
“Epsilon Three,” he muttered to whoever answered. He listened for a moment and then he turned to Freddie. “What’s our address?” He repeated the details to whoever was listening on the other end of the call and then disconnected.
Freddie was anxious. “What was that about? What’s Epsilon Three? Why did you want our address? Who did you call?”
“Whoa!” exclaimed Freddie’s uncle who had arrived in time to hear the list of questions. “Give the poor lad a chance, Freddie. Besides, it’s time for your homework. Get to it.”
Freddie could scarcely contain himself and focused only partly on his homework as Sam led him through the exercises. Sam ignored all his questions about the cell phone and his call, and seemed very pre-occupied. He missed a couple of careless mistakes which Freddie had made due to his own inattention. They had almost finished the set homework when Freddie’s mother called out.
“Sam—Freddie, Uncle Charles wants you. He’s in his shed. Be quick, supper is almost ready.”
They raced down the stairs and out to the shed. Freddie’s uncle was standing at his shed door, very still, with his hands raised. He was surrounded by seven or eight Rats, standing waist high, dressed all in black, holding a variety of small weapons; Freddie saw two holding handguns of some kind and the others had short automatic rifles. Sam raced ahead and confronted the Rats; they all were a good six inches, or more, taller than Sam and some were almost as tall as Freddie.
“Stand down, idiots,” commanded Sam. The black-clad Rats lowered their weapons. He continued. “I said Epsilon Three, not Alpha Ten. Who’s in charge?”
“I am, Your Highness. Sergeant Juan 23.” The tallest Rat looked as bashful as a Rat could. “We were just told it was an emergency.”
Freddie and Freddie’s uncle both spoke at the same time.
“What is this—?”
“Why did he—?”
Freddie’s uncle took a deep breath. “What’s this all about? Why am I surrounded by eight armed Rats?” He glared at both Sam and the sergeant leading the black-uniformed Rats.
“Sir—”
“It was a mistake, Uncle Charles,” Sam apologized. “Some idiot sent this team off without a proper briefing.”
“And the proper briefing would be?”
“Well, it’s difficult to explain—”
“Why did he say “Your Highness”?” demanded Freddie.
“Your question is part of the difficulty. The Cats you saw—they may be searching for me, with very deadly intent. I called it in, just in case.”
“Sam. Start at the beginning, otherwise we’ll continue to be totally confused.”
“Yes, Uncle Charles. It’s really simple. We—New Rats—have enemies—mainly Cats, of course. Not Tabby, he’s only a simple, old cat. These Cats—and I suppose I should call them New Cats—may have discovered I am here. Freddie said he saw one today in our street. So I called it in to our High Command, and they sent a defence team to check.”
Freddie frowned. “And the ‘Highness’ bit?”
“I am a member of what you would call our Royal Family.”
“Sir—”
“Silence!”
The sergeant closed his mouth. If Sam did not want to publicize that he was the King’s Heir Elect, he would not mention it. High Command had been so relieved to hear from His Highness that it had sent the first squad available without advising the reason for the callout. When the remainder of the team arrived—his thoughts were interrupted by the sound from the street of a large vehicle convoy braking to a halt.
“Oh, no,” Sam shook his head. “How many of you have they sent?”
“Sir—two platoons, led by Captain Roy, with a communication team. Sir, we hadn’t heard from you for months—”
“Well, now the Cats certainly will know someone is here. Whether they will do anything—we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Freddie’s uncle was about to comment, when Freddie’s mother called out to remind them to wash for supper. As she finished speaking, two platoons of heavily armed and armoured Rats entered the driveway in military style, with advance scouts and NCOs directing their squads in loud voices as they progressed towards the rear of Freddie’s home and his uncle’s shed.
Freddie muttered, “The neighbours aren’t going to like this, at all. Please tell them to stop tramping all over Mum’s garden.”
Sam hid his head in his cap. “I don’t think I am going to like it, either. You had best go in for supper while I sort this out. Uncle Charles, they’ll probably want to post a small guard, just for my protection. I’ll try to keep it to only two or three. Will it be all right?”
“Perhaps we should stay and support you?”
“No, no. I know how to deal with them. Ask your Mum to save me some apple pie, please, Freddie.” He shook his head and walked out from the shed along the drive towards the front of the house where Rats were assembling their operational base. Rats, carrying heavier automatic weapons and wearing Kevlon jackets, were now spread all around the garden and even along the street in front of the house. He heard a couple of thumps, and realized they were on the roof of the house, as well.
“Your Highness.” One of the Rats saluted Sam.
“Captain,” he returned the salute. “You realize I called in an Epsilon Three? And you arrived with a major force? According to the codes, Epsilon Three is ‘Presence of Cats suspected, and scouts requested to check.’ It’s not a request for half the Army to invade.”
“Sir, His Majesty said he was worried because he had not heard
from you for over four months. When you called, he was in the Control Centre and said—‘Send a company, just in case.’ And so we all came.”
Another screech of brakes sounded from the road, interrupting the captain’s explanation. Sam raised his head and lowered it again, groaning, as a team of green-clad Rats entered the driveway. They were senior members of the elite Royal Guard, which meant his father was very close by.
“Next time there are Cats around, I’ll deal with it myself. I’ll never be able to explain this to Freddie and his uncle. Or to his Mum.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, Captain. Just talking to myself. I had better go and see if His Highness is here.”
Sam’s father, His Highness, Cedric 33rd, was tall for a Rat, far taller than Sam and taller than most of his escort. He wore a dark green vest and trousers, and his belt was heavy with weapons. The young Rat stood and faced him.
“Sir, there was no need for this.”
“Son, your mother was worried. I promised if I heard from you, I would check if you were all right. Now tell me, what are you doing here, with humans?”
Sam explained how he and Freddie had met. “I’ve been helping Freddie with his studies and assisting his uncle in building an airplane.”
“An airplane?”
“Yes, and it’ll be large enough for a pilot—a Rat pilot. I’ve started to study for my pilot’s license examinations, although just from the books at this stage. One of these aircraft will be the beginning of my Rat Air Force—our own RAF.” He was very confident his idea was valid and the New Rats needed an air force.
His Highness was taken aback. He had just listened to his son deliver a cogent summary containing a number of very interesting points.
“You’re helping a human with his school lessons? You’re studying? And you want to learn to fly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t believe it. Your mother will never believe me. Now show me this airplane. In the meantime,” he signalled the senior officer in his guard, “Major, stand down. Tell the Prince’s Black Company to pack up. I think they can leave a guard of three or four, that should suffice. Tell Captain Roy to have his platoon first tidy the gardens; and if they damaged anything, have them repair or replace it.”
Shen Ark: Departure Page 7
