“I like it,” Wingle declared, a wicked gleam in his sharp eyes. “That’s a funny idea. We’ll do it.”
Many of the Dudleyites looked concerned, but at a glance from Wingle they all nodded agreement.
“But we will need time,” Borden argued. “Time to organize. Time to, er, make uniforms. And weapons!”
“Time is our problem,” Thielind agreed. “The Insurgents are looking for Mr. Wingle, and they won’t stop until they find him. Pretty soon they will run out of leads, or someone will tell them where to find him.”
“What can we do?” Borden asked. Wolfe thought hard for a moment.
“We’d better give them someone else to follow,” he said. “I have something in mind for that. What about volunteers for my plan?”
“You can ask them directly,” Wingle said. “Puppeteers,” he announced, in a different voice, which Daivid heard echoed in his own head, “Come to the Wingle Deluxe, tomorrow at noon, park time, for a special meeting. Tell the costumers and prop makers to come with you. The rest of you, get out of here! Keep your mouths shut and the Insurgents might pass you by.”
O O O
“Who are you going to get the Insurgents to chase instead of Mr. Wingle?” Borden asked Wolfe, as soon as the ballroom had emptied. The only people who remained behind were the Cockroaches and Oscar Wingle.
The park owner snorted. “I’d like to know that myself. Those fools harassed my father. They’re probably bothering every other Wingle on the planet.”
“Can we use Dudley as a diversion?” Daivid asked. “You say he doesn’t mind parades and other public appearances. Well, what if we have him make surprise visits all around the world? We’ll lead the Insurgents from place to place until we are ready for them.”
Wingle looked at him oddly. “Did you forget that Dudley is a puppet, just like all of the others? I’ll have to operate him, and that will eat into my work.”
“I …” Daivid hesitated, abashed. “Yes, I did forget. I thought you were only operating Sparky. I thought Dudley was an android at the time, and I filed the impression away without thinking. You made him move like a real being.”
“Thank you,” Wingle said, a pleased expression on his usually dour face. “That’s my real art. Inventing is a sideline. I can handle more than one at a time, boy. I’ve been doing this all my life.”
“Do you use hand signals, or light beams?” Borden asked curiously. “I didn’t see you palm a controller.”
“A controller!” Wingle let out a bark of laughter. “I am the controller! Look here,” he said, holding out his hands. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” Daivid replied.
“Good. That’s what you’re meant to see. The manipulation of a puppet is a behind-the-scenes art form. My family has been in puppetry for centuries. Over the last twelve or thirteen generations, six of them on my many-times-great-grandmother’s side, the inventors and innovators in my line have been developing complex technology that becomes a part of you, even as the characters come from within you. Neural implants in the hands and in some cases, feet as well. Aural implants that allow us to communicate—you already knew those were there, when I eavesdropped on you. It’s the same technology my grandfather sold to the military. We’d already developed far better systems. You’ve got our rejects. I can update yours so you can hear each other in and out of my tunnel system. I’ve got eye implants so I can see what my characters do, and a neural switch,” he pointed to the corner of his jaw near his ear, “lets me move between characters. They’ve got vocal synthesizers to keep a canary from sounding like a lion, but their speech comes from your mouth and out of theirs. When you get good at this, they acquire their own personalities, their own quirks, that just get embedded in your memory, so they don’t talk the same. They don’t ‘think’ the same. I can keep up to twenty moving independently, forty or more if they’re all doing the same thing.” He moved his hands as though he was playing a piano, and Sparky broke into a dance, twirling and leaping.
“I’ve got boogie fever!” the puppet cried. “Come and join me!” None of the Cockroaches saw Wingle’s lips move.
“Amazing!” Thielind beamed at Wingle. “Can I see the schematics?”
The thicket of brows drew down. “Certainly not! Those are trade secrets!”
“Twenty to forty characters per person,” Daivid echoed, raptly. That meant if he could get ten volunteers, he could have an army of puppets equal to the invading force. Twenty, and he’d outnumber the Insurgents two to one!
Borden’s normally impassive face twisted, dealing with a troubling thought. “Sir, I don’t know if we can be a party to this. Implanted cerebral technology has been outlawed for centuries, since the overthrow of the Mind Control era at the end of the Second Human Empire.”
“It’s outlawed if it controls or compels the human brain in any way,” Wingle pointed out. “We do this willingly. Real puppeteers dedicate themselves to their art for a lifetime. Only the best come to work at Wingle World, and only the best of the best are invited to stay. They never leave. I have manipulators over a hundred years old, and a few younger than ten. It’s a vocation. You know the first time you make a hand puppet out of a sock whether or not it’s going to be your life. But I still don’t like having to play while I’m trying to work.”
“Sir, we will only need Dudley operational for ten or twenty minutes at a time,” Daivid argued. “He’ll make an appearance, then we will scoop him up and sweep him off to the next place we want him sighted. The media will pick it up, and we’ll lead the Insurgents on a wild goose chase all around the world. When we want them to come here, we’ll have Dudley make a speech at the gates of Wingle World itself.”
Wingle let out a long laugh. “I like it. You have a nasty sense of humor.”
O O O
The next day at noon the dining room was packed to the walls with people. Daivid scanned the crowd and tried to guess which of those present were puppeteers, and which ones were support staff. He thought the ones with animated body language who talked a lot with their hands might be performers, but one never knew. A trained puppeteer might have learned to keep his or her hands still except when needed.
Jones came up to him, and aimed a thumb over his shoulder at a cluster of men and women in the corner. “I’ve been talking to the folks who run the machine shop, sir,” the platoon armorer said. “They tell me they can copy our can openers and swords out of high-grade plastic or wood, no trouble, but they haven’t got the quality metal to make replicas of our machine guns for a multitude. Only a few will be able to shoot.”
“We may not have a multitude yet, Jones,” Wolfe reminded him. “Let’s get a head count on our volunteers first.” He cleared his throat and activated the link to the sound system. “Can you all hear me?” Most of the audience nodded, and they settled down to listen. At the back of the room Daivid caught a glimpse of a familiar face and smiled. Connie smiled back and waved to him. He felt a rush of warm contentment to have her there. “Thank you for coming. I am Lt. Daivid Wolfe of the Thousand Worlds Confederation Space Service. Mr. Wingle asked you to come here today on a matter that is important to all of us—to all of you.
“An enemy has landed on Dudley. Everyone’s heard that Mr. Wingle’s house on the other side of Dudley was burned down. There have also been attacks on a retirement community and a resort neighborhood near the equator. Those are all the work of a group called the Insurgency. I’m sure you’ve seen reports of them in the media.…”
“Isn’t the Space Service battling them right now?” a tall man raised a very long hand to ask. “They’ve got them on the run out in a star cluster—Benadryl, is it?”
“Benarli. Yes, sir, but it appears they have split their forces. They’re here now, and we have to deal with that.” Daivid let his eye pass over his listeners. “You’re afraid of the enemy, and you ought to be. They are ruthless, desperate beings. They want power so they can take over the Confederation. Now you’re asking, ‘why is
this our business? You’re the Space Service—you handle it.’ Ladies and gentlemen, we would if we could. Even though only two or three hundred Insurgents have landed there are enough of them here to take over this world without even trying hard. Think of it! Two more weeks would go by, and the town will be a smouldering ruin, with everyone dead or enslaved, because you decided that twenty-three Space Service troopers were enough to face them down alone. The park wouldn’t be able to open!”
“No!” the crowd cried, horrified. “Not that!”
“Of course we’ll help,” Connie announced. “Tell us what we have to do.”
“I want them to believe that they’ve stumbled in on a gigantic army,” Daivid said, sketching the size with his arms. “A huge military force, thousands of troopers, all well-trained and well-armed, ready to defend Wingle World and Oscar Wingle from the invader—but not human, or itterim, or semicat, or corlist. Puppets. I’m not asking you to do anything you haven’t been doing for years. We’re going to perform this war. But I need volunteers to operate my army. Puppets, any puppets, as long as they’re large enough to be a credible trooper, no smaller than Aaooorru here.” He indicated the corlist, who scrambled up the wall of the dining room so he could be seen by everyone present. He waved a foreleg, and the puppeteers nodded.
“How big can they get?” one of the men asked. “I perform Ginophant. He’s six meters long.”
“And I’m Dimmius Grebs!” piped up a black-haired boy of ten. He looked enthusiastic at the prospect of playing soldier. “He’s two stories tall!”
Daivid grinned. “Great! The more confusion we can generate, the better. I want to throw off the Insurgents’ perception of a fighting force between a meter and two meters tall. I’ll be grateful for anyone who wishes to volunteer his or her services. But I can’t guarantee your safety. Anyone who stays can still be hurt or killed. I understand from Mr. Wingle that the underground rooms in which you perform are shielded and soundproofed. These people have air-to-surface bombs and bunker-killer charges. Anyone who isn’t part of the movement against the Insurgents has to be evacuated, and fast. Please make your decision and let me know within the hour. They could be on us any time.”
O O O
The pretty, redheaded media reporter was so excited she could hardly contain herself. “And there he is emerging from the town hall with the mayor, Oscar Wingle himself! As you viewers know, Mr. Wingle is the galaxy-famous owner of the marvelous Wingle World, the very best entertainment venue in the entire Thousand Worlds Confederation. This surprise visit has thrown the whole of Rembert into a tizzy. Here’s the mayor, shaking hands with Mr. Wingle. Mr. Wingle is going to make a speech.…” The camera eye zoomed in close on the old man’s face.
“Where is Rembert?” Ayala demanded, turning away from the viewscreen.
The navigation officer pointed a pincer at her map. “There, sir. On the southern coast of the east continent, 24º south of the equator.”
“How long will it take us to get there?”
“Thirty minutes, sir!”
“Then, what are you waiting for!” Ayala spun around again, his eyes fixed avidly on the mustachioed face in the screen. “Top speed! He has something that belongs to me.”
***
Chapter 18
“You could land a destroyer in here,” Boland said admiringly, surveying the giant underground warehouse. The officers and noncoms stood on a balcony about halfway up the wall. The ceiling was a solid expanse of light, allowing Wolfe to oversee the preparations already under way. Thousands upon thousands of puppets stood in ranks before them. All of them were at his service. All the puppeteers, costumers, and prop makers had volunteered to stay in Welcome and help battle the Insurgents to save their beloved Oscar Wingle. Daivid felt a proprietary pride as he counted up his forces. The ‘local color’ marionettes, who resembled the normal races of beings who might visit Wingle World were the most numerous. Wingle had explained to him that they wandered the park as friendly fellow tourists, or helped frightened children find the parents from whom they had been separated, in a comforting way that the gigantic yellow chick, Beak-Beak, being prepped just beyond, never could. Like Beak-Beak, the remaining puppets weren’t based upon real creatures, but licensed characters in the Wingle Company stable instantly recognizable to anyone who had ever grown up in range of a family entertainment center or a crystal amphitheater. Nanny Goat and her kids occupied a mob brushing their hair and tidying their beards. Ginophant’s trunk needed to be repleated, and the big hind feet were shifting from side to side with impatience at its groomers. The giant Dimmius Grebs hulked in a far corner, his round blue eyes on a level with the troopers.
“Look!” Lin said, pointing. “There he is!”
In the center of the enormous room, as his Carrot Palace stood in the center of Wingle World above them, was Bunny Hug himself. Daivid drew in a breath in admiration. The huge pink rabbit stood almost three meters in height, yet his face would never scare a small child. His big blue eyes were gentle and curious as though they asked the perpetual question, “Why?” Two or three workers clustered around him, grooming his coat with brushes, straightening out his whiskers, which in the animated programs were always getting crumpled when he stuck his twitching nose into a situation. Daivid envied those workers, remembering how honored he had felt when Bunny Hug had singled his nine-year-old self out of the entire crowd watching the nightly parade for a handshake and a big, all-enveloping hug. He almost sighed, until he caught his fellow troopers looking at him. He gave them an exasperated look back.
“What are you staring at?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” Lin insisted. “Nothing at all.”
Daivid resumed his study of the Wingle ‘cast.’ About a third were familiar characters, beloved for generations, but more were new to him, like the silver-horned unicorn with the insane gleam in its eye, and the gorgeously striped tropical fish, two meters in diameter, who hovered just above the floor to have their tails and fins fluffed up.
“Ow!”
Daivid peered over the edge of the balcony. Naughty Emma was having her hair rebraided by a patient-looking woman who put a firm hand on her head and made her stand still, out of kicking range of any of the other characters.
“Well, Vingit poked me first!” the girl puppet complained.
“Did not,” protested a crocodile-child. He batted aside the hand of the prop worker trying to polish his teeth. “She started it.”
“The puppeteers are in their stations,” Borden informed him, referring to her infopad. “They have supplies and bedding, and are all prepared to remain on site as long as we need them.”
“Good,” Daivid said. “I want to check on Jones and Meyers.”
O O O
The armorer was in the Properties Room, a modest title for a supply house that would have put any Space Service repair facility to shame. He counted at least twenty each of lathes, presses, and injection molders all operating at full blast, with the thick-legged figure of Jones striding among the people working them like an ancient Terran master smith. Jones spotted Wolfe and came up to him.
“Going good, sir!” he shouted over the deafening whine of the drill presses. “We’ve got a few real guns from locals who go target-shooting, about two or three hundred rounds each. A couple of the fellows over there came up with a clever design for a fake grenade launcher that shoots fireworks—they’ve got plenty of those! They’ll be really annoying!”
“Good!” Wolfe shouted back. “We want to drive the Insurgents into a central location, not get them running all over the park chasing the puppets!”
“Everyone else’s going to be carrying cutout guns,” Jones continued. He picked one up from beside a lathe operator’s table. The woman grinned at them from inside her clear safety helmet. “They based the design around my Dockery 650 machine gun. They look so real it’s a pity they don’t shoot!”
“Safer that way,” Wolfe yelled, admiring the detail of the mock gun. Made of a lightw
eight dark gray plastic, it echoed the real thing, including the hundred-round magazine and the underbarrel 3-round grenade launcher. At even a short distance it would look deadly. “Wingle said the puppets aren’t sophisticated enough to shoot accurately. The worst they can do is set fire to the rides!”
“They’ll have bayonets, too, if there’s time,” Jones added. “The swords are going to be the real triumph. We have over two rolls of molecular foil. We’ve been pasting slices of it into a slot along the edge of the plastic blades. They can really lop some arms or legs off, until the damned things bend or melt, of course. Still, we ought to get in one good strike per hanger.”
“Good work!” Daivid said, slapping the big man on the shoulder. “How’s the booby trap coming?”
Jones made a face. “Your freckled shadow was around giving me a hard time. He’s not convinced that creating piles of rubble with explosives under them is vicious enough. I told him if he had some good strategy to trot it out and tell Lin. I know what kind of reception she’ll give him.”
“Pay no attention to him, Jones,” Daivid said, annoyed. “He hasn’t said anything useful yet.”
O O O
Piles of cutout guns were growing on the floor, but not fast enough. Daivid began to worry that they wouldn’t have time to make up a convincing army to face the Insurgents. He tried not to think of the price of failure as he went to inspect the next phase of his operation.
The next workroom was occupied by tailors bent over the screens of sewing machines. The elaborate Seamster 9200s, latest sewing technology of the line, took raw bolts of fabric, cut them according to patterns stored in their capacious memories, then sewed, hemmed and finished them, almost entirely without living hands having to be laid upon them. The only input necessary from the operators was to ensure the measurements were accurate. Even though the process was entirely automated, it, too, was slower than Daivid would have liked. Assistants ran from machine to machine, taking the completed uniforms down and hanging them on racks. Like the weaponry, the dark blue suits had the right thickness and pliability of the light armor, though they couldn’t stand up to a single bullet or plasma blast. Meyers, infopad in hand, stood in a corner with D-45 and one of the tailors, shouting over the whine of the machines.
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