“Apologies, old friend, for doubting your wonderfulness. I suppose I should check the other sensors. Above sea level, I do hope.”
“Hmm,” said Foaly again.
“Please stop that. Surely, now that I am here, I should check the remaining sensors?”
Silence for a moment as Foaly accessed a few files, then he spoke in hitched phrases while the information opened before him. “The other sensors . . . are not the pressing issue . . . right now. What we really need to know . . . is why would Shelly be redlining on this sensor. Let me just see . . . if we have ever had these kind of readings before.”
Holly had no choice but to maintain contact with the sensor, legs swaying underneath her, watching the air clock on her visor run down.
“Okay,” said Foaly finally. “Two reasons for a kraken’s readings to redline. One, Shelly is having a baby kraken, which is impossible since he’s a sterile male.”
“That leaves two,” said Holly, who was certain that she would not like the second reason.
“And two. He’s shedding.”
Holly rolled her eyes in relief. “Shedding. That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“Weeeellll, it’s a little worse than it sounds.”
“What do you mean, a little?”
“Why don’t I explain as you fly away as fast as you can.”
Holly did not need to be told twice. When Foaly advised an officer to leave before he delivered one of his beloved lectures, then the situation was serious. She spread her arms wide, and the action was mimicked by the wings on her back.
“Engage,” she said, pointing both arms to the surface; the engines ignited and blasted her clear of the Baltic, boiling the water wake as it hung in the air. Her suit was instantly dry as moisture slipped from its nonstick material and air resistance tugged at any remaining drops. In seconds she had climbed to a few hundred feet, the anxiety in Foaly’s voice hurrying her along.
“A kraken sheds its shell once, and records show that Shelly dumped his three thousand years ago, so we presumed that was that.”
“But now?”
“Now it seems as though Shelly has lived long enough to do it again.”
“And why are we concerned about this?”
“We are concerned about this because kraken shed very explosively. The new shell has already grown, and Shelly will get rid of the old one by igniting a layer of methane cells and blasting it off.”
Holly wanted to be sure she understood what was being said. “So you’re saying that Shelly is going to light a fart?”
“No, Shelly is going to light the fart. He has stored enough methane to power Haven for a year. There hasn’t been a fart like this since the last dwarf tribal gathering.”
A computer representation of the explosion appeared in Holly’s visor. To most fairies the image would be little more than a blur, but LEP officers were forced to develop the double focus necessary to read their screens and watch where they were going at the same time.
When the simulation put Holly clear of the projected blast radius, she dropped her boots, swinging in a loose ascending arc to face the kraken.
“Isn’t there something we can do?”
“Besides take a couple of pictures? Nope. Too late for that. Only a few minutes to go. Shelly’s inner shell is already at ignition temperature, so put your glare filter down and watch the show.”
Holly lowered her shade. “This is going to make the news all over the world. Islands don’t just explode.”
“Yes they do. Volcanic activity, gas leaks, chemical accidents. Believe me, if there’s one thing the Mud Men do know, it’s how to explain away an explosion. The Americans invented Area 51 just because a senator crashed a jet into a mountain.”
“The mainland is safe?”
“Should be. A little shrapnel, maybe.”
Holly relaxed, hanging from her wings. There was nothing she could do, nothing she should do. This was a natural process, and the kraken had every right to shed its shell.
Methane explosions. Mulch would love this.
Mulch Diggums was currently running a private investigations office in Haven with the pixie wheel-fairy Doodah Day. Mulch had, in his day, caused some methane disturbances himself.
Something pulsed gently in Holly’s visor. A plasma splotch of red in the thermal sweep windows. There was life on the island, and not just insect or rodent. Multiple humans.
“Foaly. I have something.”
Holly resized the window with a series of blink commands to track down the source. There were four hot bodies inside the sauna.
“Inside the sauna, Foaly. How did we miss them?”
“Their bodies were at the same temperature as the brick walls,” replied the centaur. “I’m guessing that one of the Mud Men opened the door.”
Holly magnified her visor to plus four and saw that the sauna door was open a crack, a wedge of steam pushing through the gap. The building was cooling faster than the humans, and so now they showed up separately on her scanner.
“What are those Mud Men doing here? You said nothing opens until eight.”
“I don’t know, Ho
lly. How would I know? They’re humans. About as reliable as moon-mad demons.”
It didn’t matter why the humans were there, and wondering about it was a waste of time.
“I have to go back, Foaly.”
Foaly put a camera on himself, broadcasting his live image to Holly’s helmet.
“Look at my face, Holly. Do you see this expression? This is my stern face. Do not do it, Holly. Do not return to the island. Humans die every day, and we do not interfere. The LEP never interferes.”
“I know the rules,” said Holly, muting the growling centaur.
There goes my career again, she thought, angling her wings for a steep dive.
Four men sat in the sauna’s outer room, feeling very smug that they had once again outwitted island authorities and managed to sneak a free sauna before work. It did help that one of the men was Uunisaari’s security guard and had access to the keys, and a little five horsepower punt that accommodated the four friends, and a bucket of Karjala beer.
“Good temperature in the sauna today,” said one.
A second wiped the steam from his glasses. “A little hot, I thought. In fact, even here it feels hot underfoot.”
“Go jump in the Baltic, then,” said the guard, miffed at this lack of appreciation for his efforts. “That will cool down your poor toesies.”
“Don’t pay any attention to him,” said the fourth man, fastening his watch. “He has sensitive feet. Always some temperature problem.”
The men, friends since childhood, laughed and swigged their beers. The laughing and swigging ceased abruptly when a section of the roof suddenly caught fire and disintegrated.
The guard coughed out a mouthful of beer. “Was someone smoking? I said no smoking!”
Even if one of his sauna buddies had answered, the guard would not have heard, as he had somehow managed to fly through the hole in the roof.
“My toes are really hot,” said the bespectacled man as if hanging on to old topics of conversation could make new ones go away.
The others ignored him, busy doing what men generally do in dangerous times: putting on their trousers.
There was no time for introductions or doors, so Holly drew her Neutrino sidearm and carved a six-foot hole in the roof. She was treated to the sight of four pale, semi-dressed Mud Men quivering in sudden fright.