by Amy Braun
#
Before the conquest of Earth, three weeks ago, Frankie had spent her days snowboarding upstate, tattooing herself, and prosecuting tax dodgers. She’d gained some minor notoriety by killing five squirrels during the second revolt using nothing but a pencil. Her arms and ankles were crisscrossed with deep squirrel bites.
My credentials were a little less imposing. I’d been a high school dropout and a specialist in a pet store. As a gerbil girl, I knew a rodent’s ideal nutrition sources and how to bring out the gloss in its fur and the gleam in its eyes.
I made a small side income as a rodent psychic, reading hamster and guinea pig fortunes and communicating their medical complaints. I was the perfect person to make our captors as attractive, happy, and healthy as they could possibly be.
I scratched at my bed. I’d forgotten what it felt like to not have dirt under my nails. Rest was important, but it was hard to sleep knowing we were buried alive like ants in a bottle. What time was it on the surface? Where were my parents, my brother?
“Listen,” Frankie said. “Maybe this is it.” We could hear the sound of dozens of little claws running on dirt. The squirrels never ambled or wandered; it was always little neurotic bursts of energy.
We stood as best we could, glaring up at the earthen mouth in the ceiling.
The door came to life and rumbled to one side, quickly followed by a heavy object that fell wetly on my shoulder. A food pack. I could smell the distinctive grassy odor right through the soft outer membrane. “Thank god,” I said. The door closed again with a thump.
“Yeah,” Frankie said. “But it’s off-schedule. Something’s up.” She crawled over, punched a hole near the top of the pack with her fingers, and began hungrily sucking fluid through the opening.
“They must be doing something on the surface.”
“Yeah.”
“Just before I was caught, I heard the Canadians and the Russians were still fighting,” I said. “The rats hit Europe the hardest, but they weren’t ready for Canada.”
“Canadians, really?” Frankie chuckled. “You saw what they did to our boys.”
“True.” I took a deep pull on the food pack.
Our den trembled as a robot stomped past, hissing, its tail thumping against the corridor walls.
“Do you think the energy project would’ve worked?” I asked.
“What, the space guns? I don’t know. I just got sick of all the ads begging us to save electricity. Did you go dark?”
“Sometimes, sure.”
“‘An hour a day keeps the squirrels away.’ Bullshit. It was a hot summer.”
“I remember. It was a blazer.” Just thinking about it made the air even more stifling.
Frankie shifted the rapidly emptying food pack. “I’m glad it was still daylight when they arrived. We got to see everything. In Europe, it was already nighttime.”
I remembered. “Their fleet was majestic. Solar sails glowing with the heat of reentry. The bright green and silver piping on the gunwales and the engine nacelles. Their tails braided and painted, twitching in concert.”
“What the hell is a gunwale?”
“The edge of the boat. You know, where you’d put an oar, if you were rowing a spaceboat.”
“Just say ‘the edge of the boat.’ It’ll make everybody happier.”
“Good point,” I said. “Did you see the space guns shooting?”
“Yeah. Pathetic.”
“We gave the squirrels history’s best lightshow.”
Frankie laughed at that. “True. Best pyrotechnics ever. It was a hell of an entrance.”
#
A squirrel woke us a few hours later by opening the den lid and scalding us in our beds with one of the helmet-mounted hot steam guns they love so much. I stared up at it, unsettled by the wary intelligence in its beady eyes, half expecting it to start singing a tune from The Jungle Book. It was a large one, maybe the size of an adult golden retriever.
“I can tell it’s hungry,” I told Frankie.
“Shut up.”
Hissing warm mist, one of the big clanking monkey-robots clambered down into our cell, fixed a clear, semi-inflated membrane bag around the entrance, and unceremoniously pushed us up into it using both hands and tail. We couldn’t damage the bag, although it wasn’t for lack of trying.
More steam jet and robotic prodding. We stumbled down the packed-earth corridor. It joined with another corridor, and then a much larger passage. Our ball fogged with condensation and sweat. We found ourselves crawling down a vast dirt tunnel the size of a superhighway with thousands of other men, women, and children. Most were bagged in pairs, but I spotted some singles and a few triples. Dark branching wooden pylons ascended the tunnel walls and spidered the roof like tremendous angular veins. Perhaps they had been crafted by the robots, because they were clearly beyond the abilities of the tree-rats themselves.
People were crying, some were screaming, and some tried to fight through the bags to no avail. Some simply sat in the way, curled up and unresponsive to the steam jets that were trained upon them until other humans shoved them forward. Perhaps they were dead. I know I saw one sad man, blistered and soiled, who must have been dead in his bag, his head turned at an unnatural angle to his body.
From the perspective of the squirrel overlords in their flying whirligigs, we must have looked exactly like the universe’s biggest, slowest, saddest hamster ball race.
We came to a vast crater. All we could see was the bowl of heat-seared earth and an empty sky. It was a perfect sky, lightly draped with clouds, the first sky we had seen since the invasion.
We were herded into large open transports, wooden skiffs on wheels, each powered by a large grumbling bow-mounted engine. Shoved on top of each other, lumped on top of another struggling pair, Frankie and I waited and sweated in our membrane bag for several hours. Conversation seemed pointless. Then the transport vomited a great gout of white smoke, trembled into motion, and crawled over the curved lip of the crater out into New York City.
We gaped at the landscape. The skyline was gone.
Instead, it was ridged earth as far as the eye could see. Occasionally we spotted a relic of the metropolis breaking the monotony: a concrete embankment, the hindquarters of a bus, the peak of a roof, or a traffic signal poking up at an unexpected angle.
“They rototilled my city,” Frankie said in a weak voice.
“These look like furrows.”
“Huh.”
“What do you think they want us to grow for them?”
There was a disturbing light in Frankie’s eyes. She looked like she wanted to scream, but she started to giggle instead. “Do you think they buried the Statue of Liberty?”
“I...I don’t know. Why?”
“You know. In case they want to crack it open later and look inside it for food.”
I blinked. “Seriously, Frankie. Pull yourself together.”
“I think they want nuts. They want pecan pie.”
“Come on, be serious. We’re talking about the enslavement of the human race.”
“Nutter Butters?” She burst into laughter at her own joke.
“Please stop, Frankie.”
“Go to hell,” Frankie said. She shoved me to the other side of the ball and slumped against the wall, either laughing or crying, I’m not sure which. Everyone else in the transport clearly wished we would flop out of the vehicle to be crushed under the giant spherical wheels, and in a way I did too.
#
High in the mesosphere above New York, rEttOk shifted in his flight harness to nod at prttEEk. “I cannot wait until the first tender shoots rise from the garden. It is truly glorious.”
prttEEk twitched her tail in agreement. “Yes, Your Honor.” She trembled with the desire to share with her distant littermates the view from the bridge of the Hearthbough.
The setting yellow sun blessing the rich earth with warmth. The soft fertile soil stretching in uniform waves for miles in every direction. In th
e distance, the first green shoots of Phase Two would already be extending to the sky. Soon it would be verdant with young firs, cedars, larches, and pines, all seeded and watered and aching for spring.
“Your plan was inspired, Second Claw,” rEttOk said. “The digger charges accomplished their dual purpose of shattering the skinned’s cities and freeing the sanctified earth beneath them.”
“Thank you, sir,” prttEEk said, fur flattened in humility. “But I did not foresee how rich the soil truly was under their cities.”
“Far more charged than anything on Hometree—or on this planet for that matter.” rEttOk adjusted his monocle with a paw, admiring the rich purpling hues of the darkening clouds. “It astounds me that the humans burned all their cone trees and built stone trees instead,” he said.
“Stone trees bear no seed,” prttEEk said, unable to resist the old adage.
“Today’s briefing is about the inland territories, prttEEk. I have glad news for you.”
prttEEk bowed. “Your Honor, I climb to serve.”
rEttOk nodded. “There is another phase, dear Second, a phase you will lead. Phase Four will bring prime trees to those inland acres and song to the hearts of generations of young climbers.”
prttEEk pressed her belly to the deck. “Your Honor, I am not worthy.”
“You are most worthy. Your work with the skinned is beyond our wildest expectations.”
“Thank you, sir.” prttEEk trembled. “But I fear our generals may be right about the skinned.”
“They can be dangerous, they are terrible diggers, and their flesh is indeed savory. But they are skilled gardeners. Look at their form. With their awkward posture, oversized heads, and bovine temperament, they were born to manipulate dirt. We were born to rule.”
prttEEk’s sharp eyes caught sight of a pair of bright objects flaring earthward. “Sir…!” she said.
rEttOk laughed. “Look, meteorites punctuate my grand speech!” He petted prttEEk on the head. “I appreciate your security concerns, Second Claw, but no object of that size poses any threat to the fleet.”
A scuffling came from the bridge entrance and a cadet entered with a bedraggled charge: an advance scout, probably hundreds of generations removed from his proud ancestors. He was a disgusting sight, a fraction of the mass of the average climber, skull flat, tail ragged, eyes close and dull. He stank of rot.
rEttOk waved the cadet away and turned to the scout. “What is your name?”
“Fluffybutt,” the scout said, trembling. “Me Fluffybutt.”
“You and your kin were remiss in not alerting us to the riches of this world more promptly,” rEttOk said, voice neutral. “Why did it take so long to contact Hometree?”
“We sorry, dude...we real sorry. We knew Big Seed important. We no eat Big Seed. We work hard. We figure out how to shout with Big Seed.” He rasped his claws against the deck, front paws going forward, rear paws going backward.
prttEEk found herself tempted to look away. The other climbers on the bridge evidenced a mixture of reactions: amazement, shock, and disgust.
“Yes, the seed was a transmitter,” rEttOk said, demonstrating a depth of patience unique to a Great Climber. “An aether-transmitter.”
“Eater,” Fluffybutt said. “Eater.” He threw his head left, then right, staring at the crew like they were skinned.
rEttOk twitched a whisker.
Fluffybutt recoiled. “No eat. No eat me.”
rEttOk patted the scout with a forepaw. “There will be no more killing.” The cadet ushered him out to the tunnels.
“A fearsome reminder of the sacrifices of our forebears,” prttEEk sighed.
“Hometree knows of their failings, and of their successes.” rEttOk blinked sagely. “Perhaps they did not want to share paradise.”
#
“These things are killing me,” Frankie said, throwing her digging gloves down. I looked around to see if the foreman squirrel might sic a robot on us for disrespecting their crude tools, but of course there was nothing moving in the gathering gloom except a bedraggled string of human diggers.
“I think we might be spending the night out here, squirrel style,” I said.
In the distance we could hear the cadence of heavy footsteps. “Robots coming,” Frankie said.
“I’m sure they’re bringing the new mandatory tail prostheses that we have to ram up our asses.”
Frankie slapped me on the butt. “Nice one, kid!”
The footsteps neared, preceded by a strange susurrus of whispers and comments.
“Frankie!” hissed one of our furrow-mates. “They want Frankie!”
Two bulky figures stepped out into the moonlight. The leader’s helmet hissed open, revealing the grinning face of a septuagenarian Amazon wreathed in fine silver hair.
“Superintendent Esther Van Dusen at your service,” she offered in a hoarse whisper. She extended a metal-gloved hand to us. “Canadian Mounties, Special Services. I hear you are American Frankie and her sidekick.”
I spluttered, while Frankie smoothly took the proffered hand. “Damned straight. How can we help, superintendent?”
Van Dusen shifted slightly, clanking, and I realized her bulk was due in part to her pockmarked power armor and the steaming jetpack clamped to its struts, tailpipes still glowing. “It’s an honor, American Frankie. We have me and Constable Carver here, proud descendants of lumberjacks as it happens, and we flew over with a little volatile present for the nutters. I hear you’re the two who can help us deliver it, eh?”
“Won’t blowing up the flagship only piss them off?” I said.
Frankie hissed. “Wouldn’t you rather piss them off than dig their goddamned holes?”
This was greeted by an amiable chuckle from the other Mountie. Carver, a bald youth with a handlebar moustache the size of my fist, chimed in, “You both have fine points, lassies. And here’s a third: if we break the back of their offense, we believe it will bring other human forces into the fight.”
Frankie nodded. “Excellent. Let’s get shipping.” We began walking, toward what destination I had no idea.
I suddenly stopped dead. It appeared I was actually going to save the world with my rodent skills. “Uh,” I said.
“Yes, dearie?” asked Van Dusen, motioning for Frankie to restrain herself.
“We have to stop off at a dairy upstate for some cheese.” I was surprised to realize it was my voice.
“Really?” Frankie opened and closed her right fist in frustration.
“Really,” I said. “I think we’re going to find it very useful.”
#
prttEEk strode down the corridors of the Leafwing, her tail proud but her mind heavy. The inlands would need more time, more fertilizer, and more seed. And what if rEttOk’s lofty harvest expectations couldn’t be met? Would there be more famines on Hometree? And why was she so damned hungry?
A scurry of undisciplined claws broke her train of thought. Did some foolish cadet stow his younglings on her cutter? If so her wrath would be quick and harsh.
She scrambled to follow the sound of giggling and little feet. Down, down she ran through the belly of the ship, panting, unused to such a frantic pace and slowed by her uniform.
Her pursuit brought her to the broader corridors of the engineering section, dimly lit and festooned with control lines, steam pipes, and aether-channels. She hadn’t run this hard since she was chasing her brothers through the challenge lines on Hometree.
Her stomach was churning. She scrabbled at a stanchion to spin around a corner and finally caught a brief glimpse of her fleet-footed prey—not younglings after all, but two advanced scouts, their ragged, crooked tails unmistakable! What were they doing on the Leafwing? Could they possibly be conspiring with the skinned?
“Fluffybutt, stop!” she screamed, although her tongue was confounded by drool. The pair ignored her, or simply were too dense to realize they were pursued by an officer.
The two scouts darted left toward a dead end. F
ools. prttEEk took a moment to straighten her uniform and catch her breath.
prttEEk’s next sight was one that drained all the blood from her paws. Around the corner was one of Leafwing’s massive airlocks. Through the closing outer door, she could see two—no, four!—figures in spacefaring gear, jetting away from the ship. Bipedal figures. They flew in pairs, the smaller ones strapped to the backs of the bigger ones, gesticulating crudely.
Of more importance was what they had left in the airlock, a large spherical object of warm variegated harvest colors, big enough to envelop a full-sized climber. Somehow, she knew it was edible, a calorie source more bountiful than anything she’d ever encountered.
Warm saliva filled her mouth and dripped unheeded to the oaken deck. The ball magnetized her gaze so completely that she barely saw the four (now four!) scouts frantically punching at the controls. In fact, now they’d stopped punching at the controls and were simply watching as the inner airlock door swung open.
Maybe the generations of nutritional hardship had heightened the sensitivities of the scouts. Perhaps they had foresmelled this transcendent visitation because of their keen awareness. Such things happened.
prttEEk blinked, her senses overwhelmed by a divine aroma that preceded the object as it slowly rolled toward them. It was like relaxing into a warm pond of sensation, a scent as rich and welcoming as her own mother’s milk, but spicy and mature and enhanced by a chorus of delectable roasted nut smells.
Roasted nuts! What a concept! It was completely heretical, of course, but by all that was holy, maybe the heretics were right. Tears began to run down the fur of her nose. She had been wrong, oh so wrong, and the only mammal she had hurt was herself.
She could see those nuts rotating into view as the ball approached. Pecan. Almond. Brazil. Hazelnut. Pine. Cashew, oh cashew. Sweet, sweet cashew.
Joining the scouts, she fell upon the ball and knew its flavor only briefly before it spoke.
#
Deep within the concrete tomb known as Gorbachev Baikal Security Centre Annex, General Maximillian Maravich II watched his monitors impassively as his staff shouted, laughed, and brashly sang their best approximation of “Oh, Canada.” The screens were frantic with exploding aether-tanks and flaming oak limbs as the smaller warship drove its prow deeper into the squirrel flagship and the two tore themselves apart from the inside.
