She shoved the terry cloth belt at him—Jeffrey's smuggled sensor schematics still damp in the lining. "Sally stopped counting valve rotations. She's tallying *pressure variances* in Newark Ridge's storm drains now!" Amedeo scanned the schematics, blue eyes narrowing at the fluctuating pressure graphs. "The princess mapped drain oscillations? Clever. Jules would never think to look there." Rosemarie clawed at a steam-clogged vent. "The bubble chamber's registration resets every eighty seconds. We've got one chance."
Amedeo punched Sally's new sequence—pressure peaks and troughs converted to digits—into the terminal. The bubble chamber's glass hissed open, core schematics glowing on crystalline rods. He snatched them, fur steaming in the chamber's sudden chill. "Jeffrey's Hinterland contacts want these delivered dry," he muttered, stuffing the rods into Jeffrey's terry cloth belt lining. Rosemarie shoved him toward an overflow pipe. "Go! I'll stall Jules' patrols."
She doubled back toward the interrogation block, hurling Jeffrey's second sonic detonator into a main coolant line. The explosion sent loyalists scrambling as geyser erupted through the grating. Jules' voice roared over comms: "Rosemarie's flooding Sector Gamma! Seal the vents!" Mist swallowed the corridors, buying Amedeo precious minutes.
The fox slipped through Newark Ridge's storm drains, schematics rods clinking against his hip. Jeffrey's fruitarian transport sat abandoned where loyalists had impounded it, its ignition panel still sparking from Sally's quartz-tile sabotage. Amedeo hotwired the console, bypassing the deadlock. The engine coughed to life—just as searchlights pinned him from the eastern bluffs.
---------
I continued to run around in my suit to help with clean up of Fort Knothole. The repairs were extensive after Rosemarie's sabotage, and Jules had me coordinating teams nonstop. Metal groaned overhead as we reinforced the collapsed Sector Gamma ceiling, mineral-rich water still dripping onto temporary containment fields. Nearby, Sonic supervised salvage crews hauling Kintobor's wrecked Sky Armada parts into smelting pits—each twisted thruster a reminder of how close we'd come to annihilation. Bernadette wiped hydraulic fluid from her wrench, nodding toward Newark Ridge's storm drains. "Rosemarie's lover escaped with those schematics. Jules wants patrols doubled along the northern bluffs."
Sally approached, quartz tiles clicking in her pocket as she counted pressure valves on a newly installed conduit. "Amedeo Prower won't risk crossing the Northern Barony border without dry schematics," she stated, claws tracing a hairline fracture in the alloy. "Jeffrey's fruitarian contacts operate near Walrus Court hot springs—they'll demand functional terry cloth for decontamination." Bernadette grunted, slamming her wrench against a misaligned pipe flange. "Then we flood the border outposts. Make every towel north of Newark Ridge useless."
I zipped past, kicking loose sediment into the storm drain flow. "Rosemarie's still inside Knothole—interrogation block, lower levels. She'll know where Amedeo stashed the schematics." I scoffed, tossing a twisted thruster coil into the smelter. "She ain't talking. Jules has her sweating in the geothermal baths." Sally didn't look up from the fractured conduit. "Then we make her talk. Her spa baths are forfeit, but she'll bargain for Amedeo's freedom."
Bernadette jammed her wrench into a leaking pipe joint, spraying coolant across my boots. "Jules won't authorize bargaining. He wants those schematics burned, not traded." Sally finally turned, quartz tiles clicking rhythmically in her pocket. "Then we don't ask Jules. Rosemarie diverted demolition charges to save Knothole once. She'll deal again to save her fox."
Overhead klaxons blared—patrol alerts from the northern bluffs. Sonic shot me a sharp glance. "Schematics transmission detected near Walrus Court hot springs. Dry signal." Bernadette cursed, hydraulic wrench sparking against the pipe flange. "Too late for flooding. They've got the schematics." Sally's paw closed around her quartz tiles, knuckles tight. "Not yet. Jeffrey's contacts need verification. Amedeo must deliver the rods personally." She started walking toward the interrogation tunnels, quartz clicking faster. "And Rosemarie knows the route."
Sally descended into the interrogation block's lower levels without waiting for permission. The air thickened with steam and the sharp tang of ozone from overloaded conduits. Rosemarie sat slumped in a reinforced chair bolted to the floor, fur matted with mineral deposits, her muzzle pressed against the cool metal table. Jules' interrogator—a badger with scarred knuckles—stepped back as Sally approached. "Princess. She's yielded nothing." Sally placed a single quartz tile on the table. "Leave us."
The badger hesitated, then retreated into the misty corridor. Rosemarie lifted her head, eyes dull. "Amedeo's clear of the bluffs by now." Sally slid the tile toward her. "Dry schematics mean nothing without verification. Walrus Court demands *him*—personally. Jeffrey's contacts won't risk a proxy." Rosemarie's tail twitched once. "You want the route." Sally leaned closer. "I want the leverage Jules won't give you. Give me Amedeo's extraction point, and I'll reroute loyalist patrols away from Walrus Court for twelve hours."
Rosemarie laughed—a harsh, scraping sound. "Jules would flay you alive." Sally tapped the quartz tile. "Jules is busy smelting Kintobor's armada. By the time he notices, Amedeo's either free or captured. Your choice." Silence stretched, broken only by dripping steam. Rosemarie's claw traced a fissure in the table. "Newark Ridge's old observatory. Midnight. He'll signal with a coolant flare—blue." Sally stood. "Twelve hours. Don't waste them."
Outside, Bernadette wrestled with a fractured pipe, coolant spraying her wrench. "Well?" Sally handed her the quartz tile—now etched with coordinates. "Signal Jules' patrols: *All units converge on Walrus Court's eastern hot springs. Schematics transmission confirmed.*" Bernadette's muzzle tightened. "That's the opposite direction." Sally watched loyalist transports screech toward the decoy. "Exactly. Buy the fox his window." Overhead, the klaxons wailed, chasing shadows east.
Midnight at Newark Ridge Observatory felt less like espionage and more like drowning. Geothermal runoff sloshed around my boots as I crouched behind a shattered telescope mount. Sally stood exposed on the central platform, quartz tiles clicking in her pocket—each rotation counting down the minutes until betrayal. The coolant flare Amedeo promised never came. Instead, floodlights exploded from the dome's rotten rafters, pinning Sally in blinding white. Jules stepped from the shadows, Rosemarie shackled beside him. "Twelve hours," he said, voice flat. "You wasted them."
Amedeo dropped from the corroded telescope gantry, landing silently behind Jules. Not with schematics—but with Jeffrey St. Croix's severed terry cloth belt, empty. "Walrus Court refused the delivery," he announced, light blue eyes locked on Rosemarie. "Turns out, they prefer functional monarchs over soggy treason." Jules didn't flinch. "And the schematics?" Amedeo shrugged. "Melted for scrap. Along with your lover's leverage." Sally's quartz tiles fell silent in her pocket.
Rosemarie lunged against her restraints, a raw snarl tearing from her throat. "You promised!" Amedeo turned, already fading into the dripping dark. "Promises rust faster than iron here, Mary." Jules nodded to his guards. "Escort the princess to her chambers. And Rosemarie?" He tossed a heavy key toward the observatory's flooded lower level—where the geothermal baths boiled. "Enjoy your spa." The door clanged shut, leaving only the buzzsaw whine of overloaded pumps below.
Sally paced her quarters, quartz tiles clicking a frantic rhythm against her palm. Jules hadn't confiscated them—a silent challenge. Bernadette slipped inside, hydraulic wrench dripping coolant onto the alloy floor. "Amedeo's gone to ground. Jules has patrols combing every smuggler trail." Sally stopped pacing. "He's not running. He's waiting." She tapped the quartz. "Rosemarie diverted those demolition charges because Amedeo promised her Knothole's baths intact. He'll try again."
Down in the scalding baths, Rosemarie floated on churning water, fur plastered flat. Amedeo's voice echoed from a fractured steam vent overhead: "Jeffrey's contacts lied. Walrus Court wants Jules' core reactor schematics—*dry*." Rosemarie spat mineral water. "Impossible!" "Possible," Amedeo hissed. "Sally rerouted them to Newark Ridge's coolant filtration plant. Access requires her quartz sequence *and* biometrics." Silence. Then: "Distract Jules. I'll extract the princess."
Bernadette intercepted Sally at the filtration plant's service duct. "Jules knows. Patrols are tripled." Sally didn't pause. "Then we move faster." She pressed her paw to the biometric scanner, quartz tiles clicking as she inputted pressure variance sequences—each tile rotation aligning drain oscillations with Fort Knothole's security grid. The vault hissed open, revealing core reactor schematics glowing on crystalline rods. Bernadette snatched them, stuffing them into a thermal pouch. "Rosemarie's bath diversion won't hold Jules long." Outside, alarms blared—geothermal pumps surging as Rosemarie overloaded the baths' heating coils.
Jules stormed into the tactical hub, steam still curling from his armor plates. "Status!" he barked, slamming a fist onto the holotable. Loyalists flinched as the Northern Barony border flickered—Kintobor's surviving Sky Armada remnants regrouping near Walrus Court. "Overlander scouts crossed the bluffs," a lieutenant reported, highlighting thermal signatures. "They're probing our defenses." Jules' smile returned, sharp as shattered glass. "Good. Let them taste our borders." He grabbed a stylus, slashing red vectors across the display. "Reroute all smelted armada slag to the eastern trenches. I want molten iron rivers by dawn."
Sally met Amedeo at the storm drain outflow, crystalline rods gleaming in her paw. "Schematics. Dry." The fox's triangular ears twitched toward distant artillery fire. "Walrus Court verified them. Kintobor's mobilizing at dawn." He extended Jeffrey's terry cloth belt—empty. "Your price?" Sally's gaze hardened. "Rosemarie. Extract her before Jules boils her alive." Amedeo pocketed the rods. "Done." He vanished into the runoff mist as Bernadette emerged, hydraulic wrench sparking. "Jules just activated the iron rivers. Overlander advance units are already sinking in slag."
Below Fort Knothole, molten metal surged through fortified trenches, glowing crimson under the moonless sky. Overlander scouts screamed as their armored treads sank into the liquid iron, flesh and steel fusing into grotesque sculptures. Jules watched from the eastern bluffs, steam rising from his boots. "Burn the bridges," he ordered, voice flat. "Let the Baronies and Overlanders drown in each other's blood." Behind him, Sally's quartz tiles clicked softly—a relentless countdown no one else heard.
The molten trenches cooled into jagged obsidian scars by dawn, Overlander corpses fossilized within like insects in amber. Jules studied the battlefield through reinforced binoculars, steam curling from his thermal cloak. "Iron rivers bought us hours, not days," he muttered, thumb tracing a crack in the lens. "Kintobor won't send scouts next time. He'll send everything." Behind him, Sally scraped quartz tiles against a pressure gauge—*click-click-CLACK*—counting the seconds until annihilation. Jules didn't turn. "Stop that infernal tallying. We need solutions, not rituals."
He stormed into the tactical hub, slamming schematics of Newark Ridge's storm drains onto the holotable. "Flood them," he ordered, jabbing at the main filtration plant. "Redirect geothermal runoff laced with biopharmaceutical waste from Sector Gamma's derelict labs. Turn every drain into a toxin sluice." Bernadette stepped forward, wrench clenched. "Those chemicals mutate organic tissue, Jules. They'll deform civilians in the runoff zones." Jules' muzzle tightened. "Then evacuate the lowlands. Or don't. Knothole's survival requires scorched earth, not half-measures."
Sally's tiles fell silent. "The Overlanders aren't monolithic. Kintobor's faction pushed this war, but others—" Jules cut her off with a snarl. "Save your idealism for the graveside. Every Overlander who crosses that slag field dies screaming." He shoved the toxin dispersion schematics at Bernadette. "Implement Phase: Pestilent Tide. Full saturation of the northern drainage basin by dusk." As Bernadette hesitated, Jules turned to me. "Sonic—oversee demolition charges on the Sector Gamma outflow pipes. Blast them wide." His stare pinned me. "No delays."
I zipped toward Sector Gamma, kicking mineral runoff into swirling eddies. Jules' plan wasn't defense—it was genocide. The outflow pipes fed directly into Newark Ridge's aquifer, poisoning every wellspring north of Fort Knothole. Rosemarie's bath diversion had bought chaos; loyalist patrols scrambled toward the overheated baths, leaving the demolition site lightly guarded. Two badgers stood watch at the main valve cluster, arguing over coolant ration allocations. I blurred past, snatching the detonator remote clipped to the lead badger's belt before he registered the gust. He patted his hip, confused. "I swore I just had it on me ..."
Inside the filtration control room, Jules hunched over toxin dispersion schematics, red-lining drain routes toward Overlander settlements. "Triple the concentration in Sluice Seven," he barked at a tech, ignoring the distant klaxons blaring from the baths. "I want that valley uninhabitable by sundown." Sally appeared silently at his shoulder, quartz tiles clicking softly in her pocket. "The Northern Baronies will retaliate with plague vectors. You're escalating annihilation." Jules didn't look up. "Then let them choke on their own poison. Demolition charges primed?" I flashed a thumbs-up, palming the detonator remote behind my back. "Charges set, boss. Ready to blow Sector Gamma wide open." Jules grunted approval. "Good. On my mark—"
I slipped into the overflow tunnel, Jules' voice fading behind me. The detonator remote felt cold against my palm. Instead of triggering the Sector Gamma charges, I rerouted the signal through Sally's quartz frequency scrambler—a gift from Rosemarie during the bath diversion chaos. With a flick, I disabled the explosives entirely, then hotwired the alarm panel to scream "SYSTEM FAILURE" across every console in Knothole. Loyalist techs scrambled toward false readings as Jules roared over comms: "Sonic! Status!" I keyed the mic, voice strained. "Pipe corrosion compromised the detonators! Need manual reset—delaying blast!" Jules cursed. "Fix it! I want those toxins flowing in ten minutes!"
Bernadette intercepted me at a junction, hydraulic wrench sparking. "Jules suspects sabotage. He's sending Acorn's old interrogators to secure Gamma." I tossed her the scrambled detonator. "Keep 'em busy. Sally's buying us time." Down the corridor, Sally stood before Jules, quartz tiles spread across a drainage map. "The Baronies diverted their plague vectors through Walrus Court's abandoned aqueducts," she lied smoothly, tapping a tile. "Flooding Sluice Seven now would poison *their* forces, not ours." Jules hesitated, distrust warring with tactical hunger. "Verify that intel." Sally nodded. "Deploying scouts. Delay the toxin release until dawn." Jules clenched his jaw. "You have until first light. Then Gamma burns."