War on Whimsy (20 page)

The Space Brigade and Henry Sweet stood back politely and waited while the starving prisoners fell upon the food. It was wonderful to see the color coming back into their cheeks, and the light returning to their eyes as they ate and drank.

“There is something familiar about that aunt with the fuzzy gray hair,” said Katie quietly to Nicola, pointing at the picnic rug where the United Aunts were sitting with very straight backs tucking into sausage sandwiches.

“That's because she represents the Planet of Shobble,” explained Nicola. Most of the people of the Planet of Shobble share similar features: fuzzy hair and round, sweet faces.

“A Shobbling!” said Sean. “We can ask her, then!”

“Ask her what?”

“Ask her what the limited edition gold buttons do,” said Sean.

He walked over to the picnic blanket where the aunts were sitting. They watched him bend down and show the Shobbling aunt the button around his neck.

A few minutes later he was back with a big grin on his face.

“So?” said Nicola.

“It lets you unbutton your mistakes,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“She said if you make a mistake that you can't fix any other way, you just hold the button between your fingertips and say, ‘
Let that moment retake, so I can unbutton my mistake.
' You'll get a second chance to fix things. Nobody else except you will ever remember you made the mistake.”

“Gosh.” Katie carefully held up her button and looked at it with awe.

“I bet it doesn't work,” said Greta. “It seems very unlikely to me.”

“I wonder what technology it uses,” said Tyler.

“Well, I'm
always
making mistakes,” said Shimlara. “It should come in very handy.”

“That's the other thing,” said Sean.“She said you can only use it once. That's why it's called a limited edition. She said to make sure you only use it for a really
serious
mistake.”

“So this is your army, Nicola?” said Georgio doubtfully.

It was later that afternoon. Nicola looked at the huge crowd of Whimsians gathered in front of the prison camp. They had all responded to Henry Sweet's “Call to Arms” the night before. Not surprisingly, there was no electronic means of communication on Whimsy. Instead, messages were sent on miniature scrolls of parchment, carried by white doves in their beaks.

“At least everyone seems very
busy
,” said one of the United Aunts.

This was true. Artists feverishly painted huge canvases. Sculptors were up to their elbows in wet clay.

“They might not look like an army—” said Nicola to Georgio.

“You've got that right!”

Before Nicola could say any more, Henry Sweet hurried up to her, wringing his hands. “The artists are arguing over color schemes. This is unexpectedly stressful. I might need to lie down.”

“You can lie down once we've won the war, Henry,” said Nicola. She looked up at the sky. Whimsy's giant sun had begun to slide toward the horizon. “We haven't got long before sunset.”

“Maybe you could take us through your strategy one more time, Nicola?” said Georgio.

“She doesn't have time,” said Mully. “We're going to have to trust the Space Brigade. They've proven themselves before. I think their plan is very . . . creative.”

“That's one word for it,” said Georgio grimly.

“Do you have any other ideas, Dad?” asked Shimlara impatiently.

“Not exactly,” admitted Georgio.

“Then instead of complaining, maybe you could be asking how you could help!”

“Putting aside your rather undaughterly tone, you make a good point,” said Georgio. He turned to Nicola. “How can we help?”

“Everyone has been assigned to a platoon,” said Nicola.“So I suggest you report to your platoon leader and await orders.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Georgio saluted Nicola as if she were a ship's admiral. “Who is my platoon captain?”

Shimlara smiled. “That would be me, Dad.”

“Excellent. I'll feel right at home being bossed around by my daughter.”

Squid removed his thumb from his mouth. “I want to be on your plate, too!” he cried, looking up imploringly at his big sister.

“Don't worry, you're in my platoon, too,” said Shimlara. She hoisted Squid up onto her hip.

“What about me?” asked Mully. “Am I in Shimlara's platoon, too?”

“Actually, seeing as you're the only person with actual army experience, you have your own platoon,” said Nicola. She hoped that Georgio wouldn't be upset about his wife being a platoon captain, when he was a lowly soldier, but she needn't have worried.

“Mully's platoon will put the others to shame!” he said with satisfaction.

“Thank a lot, Dad,” said Shimlara. “Great team spirit.”

“What? Oh! Sorry, darling, I mean, oh dear, I do put my heel in my mouth sometimes.”

“Foot in your mouth,” corrected Greta under her breath.

“What's she mumbling about?” said Georgio irritably.

“The United Aunts are all in Mully's platoon.” Nicola squinted at the piece of paper she'd been scribbling on last night.

“Right,” said Mully. “And what's our objective?”

“Your objective is to infiltrate the enemy lines and to sabotage their tanks,” said Nicola, wondering if this was actually possible for a group of elderly aunts. “If that's okay?”

“No problem,” said Mully, as if Nicola had just asked her to pass the milk.

“What's our objective?” Georgio asked Shimlara respectfully.

“Intelligence,” said Shimlara. “We have to read the enemy's minds and report anything useful to Nicola. We'll be scanning thousands of soldiers' minds all at the same time.”

Princess Petronella sauntered over to Nicola.

“I hear that you're assigning people to platoons,” she said. “I assume I'll be commander in chief of a battalion, perhaps?”

It hadn't actually occurred to Nicola to give the princess a specific role.

“Ah, we thought of you as more of a . . . figurehead,” she said.

“Figurehead,” frowned the princess. “That must be an Earthling word. I expect it means
Queen of Everything
?”

“Sort of,” said Nicola. No need to mention that figureheads didn't actually have any authority.

“Excellent,” said the princess. “I'll go and check on everybody's progress.”

“Thanks,” said Nicola. She turned back to her list and checked off the roles for everyone else.

 

Sean—Captain of the Theatrical Platoon

Katie—Captain of the Music Platoon

Tyler—Captain of the Sculptors Platoon

Henry Sweet—Captain of the Painters Platoon

Greta—Captain of the Writers and Poets Platoon

Nicola—GENERAL

Nicola looked around her to check on how all the other platoon captains were doing.

Sean was trying to make his platoon do push-ups without much success. There was a lot of theatrical groaning and collapsing.

To Nicola's surprise, Katie was speaking extremely sternly to her music platoon. “We're going to practice again,” she said. “Again and
again.
Until we get it perfect.”

Tyler's sculptors were working hard, as were Henry's painters. Meanwhile, Greta's writers and poets seemed to be . . . crying.
Oh dear.

Nicola hurried over to see what was going on.

“I don't know what's wrong with them,” snapped Greta when she saw Nicola approach.

“She said my beautiful words were garbage,'” sobbed one of the poets.

“I don't think writers handle criticism very well,” said Nicola quietly to Greta. “You need to be more encouraging.”

She turned to Greta's platoon.

“You are the best and most talented writers and poets in the galaxy!” she told them. “You write exquisitely! Your words can help win this war! Please, do not give up! We need you!”

The writers and poets sniffed, wiped their eyes, picked up their pencils, and got back to work.

“Thank you, Nicola,” said Greta sincerely. “That was very helpful of you.”

Nicola was a bit thrown by Greta's uncharacteristic gratitude but she didn't have time to think about it because at that moment she heard a sound like the beating of a drum in the distance. “What's that?”

One of the Whimsian writers looked up from his notebook.

“It's the sound of marching boots,” he said. “The Volcomanian army must be close.”

Nicola looked up at the sky and saw that Whimsy's giant sun had sunk even lower in the sky.

Icy fingers of fear caressed her neck.

It was sunset on the Planet of Whimsy. The sky was the color of crushed strawberries.

Nicola shivered.

“Are you chilly?” said Princess Petronella.

“I'm fine.” Nicola lowered her binoculars.

She and the princess were standing on a small, rocky outcrop on the side of a mountain above the Sublime Valley. It was a perfect vantage spot to observe the army below.

The Volcomanian tanks had rolled into the valley just before sunset, along with what seemed like thousands of soldiers marching in straight-backed, stiff-armed formation. Their boots and buttons shone. Their weapons were slung over their shoulders at the same angle. This was an army that knew exactly what it was doing.

Nicola held her portable radio provided by XYZ40 close to her mouth.

“Come in, Shimlara,” she said, feeling self-conscious. “Over.”

Shimlara, Georgio, and Squid had a hiding spot lower down the mountain, where they were close enough to see the soldiers' faces so they could read their minds.

Shimlara's voice came over the radio. “This is Shimlara.”

“Have you—”

“Over!”

“Beg your pardon?” said Nicola.

“I forgot to say
over
after I said ‘This is Shimlara.' Over.”

“Oh, okay. What have you got to report?”

“Shimlara?”

“Sorry, I was waiting for you to say over! Over.”

Princess Petronella snickered.

“Have you read the minds of any of the Volcomanian soldiers?” asked Nicola. “What are they thinking? Over.”

“They're all very relaxed. Most of them seem to think that we've chickened out,” said Shimlara. “Dad says he's never read more smug minds. Oh, and Squid wanted me to tell you that a soldier called Pete is looking forward to a fried armchair for his dinner. I think his reading might be a bit off. Over.”

“Thanks, Shimlara,” said Nicola. “Over and out.”

She turned to look at the princess. “It's time to attack.”

“You have my approval,” said Princess Petronella grandly.

Nicola hid a smile and picked up her radio. “Come in Sean, Katie, Greta, Tyler, and Henry!”

The other platoon captains were all scattered at different points overlooking the valley. Everyone except for Henry answered immediately.

“Henry?” said Nicola.

“Sorry!” said Henry after a second. “I was overcome by the eerie sensation of hearing your voice through this remarkable machine.”

“I want you to attack on the count of three,” said Nicola into the radio.

“Four,” interrupted Princess Petronella. “Nobody ever does anything important on the count of three. You do it on the count of four.”

“On Earth we—” began Nicola. “Oh, forget it. Fine.” She clicked the button on the radio again. “On the count of four, I want you to attack. One . . .”

“Four?” Greta's cranky voice spoke through the radio. “Don't you mean three?”

Henry spoke up. “On the Planet of Whimsy we do things on the count of twenty-two. It's such a pleasing number.”

“
Attack!
” cried Nicola. “
Attack now!
”

Nicola held her breath.This could be highly embarrassing if it didn't work.

“Nothing is happening,” said Princess Petronella.

“Wait. Listen.”

First there was a sound like galloping hooves.

“Horses?” said the princess. “Where did you get horses from?”

“It's not horses,” said Nicola. “It's Katie's musical platoon. It's actually drums.”

“No, they're real! Look! It's a whole army!”

Thousands of soldiers on horseback were galloping over the ridge of the mountains toward the valley below. The soldiers wore scarlet coats over white pants. They carried bayonets that caught the light. The horses were fine-looking creatures with black shiny coats. It was an amazing and terrifying scene. Blood-curdling cries rang out across the mountain.

“
Chaa-aaarge!
”

“
We will never surrender until we beat the offender!
”

“
There is nothing flimsy about the soldiers of Whimsy!
”

“Where did you get a real army from?” marveled the princess.

“It's not real,” said Nicola, although she could hardly believe it wasn't real herself. “That's a painting by Henry Sweet's platoon. They've got a huge canvas up there and they're shaking it to make it look like they're moving.”

“But they're real voices!”