wheezing growl, grew closer.
‘We haven’t known each other long,’ Nicki said to the others. ‘But I’ve grown quite fond of you.’
‘Thank you, Nicki,’ Astrid said.
‘I’d hate to see you devoured by an underground monster.’
‘Nice of you to say,’ Blake said.
‘To see you torn limb from limb,’ Nicki continued. ‘To see your eyes sucked from their sockets, to see your headless corpses—’
‘We get the idea.’
‘Uh oh,’ Astrid said.
‘Uh oh—what?’ Blake asked.
But in the next instant he knew. The tunnel abruptly ended at a concrete wall.
‘What the sprot is this?’ Blake said.
‘Oh dear,’ Nicki said. ‘The maps haven’t been updated.’
Zeeb says:
This is not unusual in Neo City. Possibly the most bizarre case of poor planning by the Neo City Council occurred when they fought for three years to have an old building demolished, only to discover it was its own council building.
Only a flurry of last-minute letters submitted in triplicate, a petition signed by 1,000,000 voters and a personal plea from the Earth’s president saved it from demolition.
‘I think it’s a sewerage pipe,’ Nicki said. ‘Breaking through would flood the tunnel. I’d be fine, but those of us who need oxygen would have problems.’
Another growl rolled down the tunnel from behind.
‘That sounds closer,’ Astrid said.
‘It is.’ Nicki studied her datapad. ‘This is interesting. The thing, uh, the really big thing, is a result of radioactive waste.’ She did a double take. ‘That’s very odd.’
Before Nicki could define very odd , Astrid raised a shaking arm and pointed to the rockfall they hadcrossed only a minute before. Something had filled the gap above it.
Something dark. Something large.
The creature slithered resolutely over the obstacle, raised what passed for a head and sniffed the air with what could optimistically be called a nose.
Blake froze. Would their blasters work on the creature?
He made a tiny hand motion to the others to remain still. Maybe if the creature didn’t see them, it would assume it had lost its prey and slither back to whatever hellhole it called home. Its ‘head’ moved about like a slug testing the air.
The creature seemed frustrated, as if sensing it had lost the trail, and slowly began to turn around.
It’s working! Blake thought. It’s—
‘Yippee!’ Nicki screamed. ‘Come and get us, you sprot eater !’
The creature roared and then charged.
17
Barnaby Hazleton loved art.
His mother had taken him to the Louvre when he was a child and he had literally jumped for joy as she led him from room to room. As far as he was concerned, science helped you to live, but art gave you a reason to live.
Fortunately, his mother was a wealthy woman, allowing Barnaby to pursue his passion. As soon as he was old enough to pick up a paintbrush, he started producing his own paintings. He worked day and night, studying under the best art teachers Earth had to offer. But by the time of his twenty-first birthday, he had to face the terrible truth.
He had no artistic talent.
Oh, he could copy. He could reproduce Leonardo’s Mona Lisa or Bargetti’s Seven Drapnas Eating the Mayor of Fellshaw as accurately as a photograph. More accurately, some would say. His own teachers marvelled at how he could reproduce not only every brushstroke of the original artist but a sense of the artist as well. His teachers all agreed he was a marvellous copier, but as far as being able to create original work…
‘Some of us have it,’ Señor Felipe, his favourite teacher, told him one day. ‘And some of us do not. Your composition is unbalanced. Your colours are wrong. Your tonal gradients…’ He shuddered in silent horror. ‘Well, you understand what I mean.’
‘But surely I can improve!’
Señor Felipe had tried to be encouraging. ‘Stick to what you are best at,’ he said. ‘Copying.’
This evaluation was so soul-destroying that Barnaby had given up
‘We haven’t known each other long,’ Nicki said to the others. ‘But I’ve grown quite fond of you.’
‘Thank you, Nicki,’ Astrid said.
‘I’d hate to see you devoured by an underground monster.’
‘Nice of you to say,’ Blake said.
‘To see you torn limb from limb,’ Nicki continued. ‘To see your eyes sucked from their sockets, to see your headless corpses—’
‘We get the idea.’
‘Uh oh,’ Astrid said.
‘Uh oh—what?’ Blake asked.
But in the next instant he knew. The tunnel abruptly ended at a concrete wall.
‘What the sprot is this?’ Blake said.
‘Oh dear,’ Nicki said. ‘The maps haven’t been updated.’
Zeeb says:
This is not unusual in Neo City. Possibly the most bizarre case of poor planning by the Neo City Council occurred when they fought for three years to have an old building demolished, only to discover it was its own council building.
Only a flurry of last-minute letters submitted in triplicate, a petition signed by 1,000,000 voters and a personal plea from the Earth’s president saved it from demolition.
‘I think it’s a sewerage pipe,’ Nicki said. ‘Breaking through would flood the tunnel. I’d be fine, but those of us who need oxygen would have problems.’
Another growl rolled down the tunnel from behind.
‘That sounds closer,’ Astrid said.
‘It is.’ Nicki studied her datapad. ‘This is interesting. The thing, uh, the really big thing, is a result of radioactive waste.’ She did a double take. ‘That’s very odd.’
Before Nicki could define very odd , Astrid raised a shaking arm and pointed to the rockfall they hadcrossed only a minute before. Something had filled the gap above it.
Something dark. Something large.
The creature slithered resolutely over the obstacle, raised what passed for a head and sniffed the air with what could optimistically be called a nose.
Blake froze. Would their blasters work on the creature?
He made a tiny hand motion to the others to remain still. Maybe if the creature didn’t see them, it would assume it had lost its prey and slither back to whatever hellhole it called home. Its ‘head’ moved about like a slug testing the air.
The creature seemed frustrated, as if sensing it had lost the trail, and slowly began to turn around.
It’s working! Blake thought. It’s—
‘Yippee!’ Nicki screamed. ‘Come and get us, you sprot eater !’
The creature roared and then charged.
17
Barnaby Hazleton loved art.
His mother had taken him to the Louvre when he was a child and he had literally jumped for joy as she led him from room to room. As far as he was concerned, science helped you to live, but art gave you a reason to live.
Fortunately, his mother was a wealthy woman, allowing Barnaby to pursue his passion. As soon as he was old enough to pick up a paintbrush, he started producing his own paintings. He worked day and night, studying under the best art teachers Earth had to offer. But by the time of his twenty-first birthday, he had to face the terrible truth.
He had no artistic talent.
Oh, he could copy. He could reproduce Leonardo’s Mona Lisa or Bargetti’s Seven Drapnas Eating the Mayor of Fellshaw as accurately as a photograph. More accurately, some would say. His own teachers marvelled at how he could reproduce not only every brushstroke of the original artist but a sense of the artist as well. His teachers all agreed he was a marvellous copier, but as far as being able to create original work…
‘Some of us have it,’ Señor Felipe, his favourite teacher, told him one day. ‘And some of us do not. Your composition is unbalanced. Your colours are wrong. Your tonal gradients…’ He shuddered in silent horror. ‘Well, you understand what I mean.’
‘But surely I can improve!’
Señor Felipe had tried to be encouraging. ‘Stick to what you are best at,’ he said. ‘Copying.’
This evaluation was so soul-destroying that Barnaby had given up
Similar Books
