Imagine a weather balloon, but alive. A mottled, spotted thing with patterns and veins that look a little like a butterfly’s wing. This one was a deep blue, with a pink spiral pattern. The sphere of its inflated body was maybe six feet across.
It felt big and mean, but also quite fragile. A soap bubble that threw grenades.
At the bottom of the creature, where a balloon might have a gondola, was a reef of blue marbles: eyes. They were haphazardly placed all around the flat, round body of the creature. A few of them were on the edge of the gondola, if you will. Most were aimed downward. I didn’t know which of the eyes to meet, so I stuck with a decently-sized one aimed more or less at me.
Arms. It was all thin, knobby arms after that. Five of them, distributed evenly around the gondola. Folded elaborately like the grabbers on a praying mantis. Each arm had a belt and a pouch, or holster. Tools poked out.
The hands were very simple but looked terribly strong: three fingers each covered by shiny, shell-like material. Stranglin’ hands. Three-fingered Ninja Turtle hands, if you’ll pardon the comparison.
The being was a living balloon. With tools.
The Radio piped up from the shallows. “Owen knew the Gardener was inspecting him. It spoke in its language, a series of whistles that Owen could not hear. It declared that Owen was a monster and foolish. It was speaking to its fellows, because Owen was beneath notice.”
So not only was the balloon living, it was also a jerk. “Radio,” I called. “Is this the Iron Conclave? Is that what I’m looking at here?”
“The folk of the Iron Conclave looked nothing like this person. These people were known in most languages as Gardeners or Foresters.”
“Were they prisoners like the Hunt? In this vehicle here?”
“There were prison cages for many beings. They contained evidence that the Hunt and the Gardners been ncarcerated within.”
I turned and shouted to Schmendrick. “How did everyone escape?”
“Killed it!” she crowed. “KILLED IT!” The rest of her pack screamed in chorus.
“Did you let these Gardeners out?”
“Claro que sí.”
I turned back to the Gardener. “So what’s the problem? Radio, can you ask it?”
A pause. “The Gardener refused to accept aid from monsters. Its people are a proud and ancient race and it demanded to be returned to the world-of-trees.”
“I can’t do that. I don’t know where it is or how to get there.”
“The Green Radio was aware of Owen’s numerous limitations.”
“Why don’t they just float away? Leave here? Please ask.”
“The Gardeners were mighty and had nothing that could thwart them, but they were reluctant to simply drift over the sea with no means of stopping. Their world-of-trees was nothing like this terrible place and they demanded to be returned home. This last was stated with some emphasis.”
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“Can you get them to come with us? I have trees that need tending, and fruit that needs to be harvested. Just until a way home is found for them.” Which could be never, of course. But I couldn’t just leave them out here. “If they stop throwing grenades, please.”
“They vehemently refused. They were disgusted at even hearing the offer from such a lesser being as Owen and his wise, offended friend the Green Radio.”
But the balloon being extended a hand and slowly approached. It cautiously held my hand in one of those alien mitts. Hard shell, cold. One of its other hands was extended towards the fog and another balloon person emerged, taking hold. It was monarch butterfly orange-and-black.
One after another they made a chain. I was able to get them to the raft. “Schmendrick, clear the deck so they can hold on to the lashings there, please.”
“Gardener not stupid now?” Schmendrick asked, as her pack cleared the way.
“I don’t know. Why were you fighting earlier?”
“Gardener not want kill monster.” She posed, rather majestically. Gazing into the middle distance like Harrigan had. “Dead monster.”
“Yeah, all right. Fasten your seat belts.”
So I had a chain of bitchy weather balloons holding on to my raft, and twenty members of the Hunt. I myself had no room aboard, so I pushed and kicked. The pack tried to help from aboard the raft, kicking and scooping water. The Gardeners did absolutely nothing.
Thunder boomed and the stars were hidden by huge clouds. Flickering glows nestled in there. Not lightning. They blinked in patterns with discernable rhythm.
The Hunt felt it too. “Run fast,” said Schmendrick. She was looking around the sky at the new clouds.
The chain of Gardeners rose up straight and a little behind us. A string of wiggly rainbow pearls. I suddenly worried about a lightning strike on one of them, way up there…
The Radio excitedly rushed through another translation. “The Gardener expressed concern that the slain monster would draw others, and that all present were doomed due to the incompetence of the human person present. Also the monsters who wrecked the ship, they were to blame as well.”
“Is it sending a distress call?” Because the clouds had covered the sky entirely. More thunder. The pack of Hunters crouched low and whined.
“Surprisingly, Owen was correct; a signal was bringing the 101st Celestial Ascendancy Division. The signal was not automated. The pilot was simply no longer dead.”
“How nice for him.” I kicked, and kicked, and the raft moved so slowly. “Tell me about who’s coming here. What do they want?”
“Listen up, Jackson - even the ether box ain't got the moxie for mind games. But here's the dope: we spy (like the old days) three vessels. On the level."
“We need to get back to the Observatory. We need help.” I was still gamely kicking, trying to push the raft. “Call 911.”
“The Green Radio began to ring Doctor Jeff Harrrigan through his security measures–”
“Not him! NEVER him! Tell me about the machines used by the Iron Conclave.”
“The Green Radio hesitantly offered to try reaching the Undine–”
“Not her either. You know what, forget it.”
I was Steward of the Observatory. I didn’t know what it meant, but after a certain point you just get tired of things. You get tired of not handling it. So let’s handle it.
“Tell me about their machines.”
“The Conclave used very primitive devices whose purposes and mechanisms were augmented by what Owen would call Magic, but was known by a variety of other names, such as Cognitive Manifestation, Entropic Inversion, Bioelectric Amplification–”
“Will their stuff work without it?”
A long silence from the Radio. I splashed and kicked. Closer to the shore, closer…
“No,” said the Radio.
To my relief, my feet dug into sand.
I shoved the raft ashore. The Hunt fled into the jungle like ghosts. The string of Gardeners drifted helplessly, but the wind was with them. They made it to the trees and latched on like multicolored Christmas ornaments.
I turned and saw what was coming.