I plunged into the frigid current, fighting the undertow toward Lord Acorn's listing hovercraft. Waterlogged insulation sparked against my claws as I tore open the engine vent—Rosemarie's sabotage schematics flashing in my mind. Sally's voice cut through the roar: "The backup transmitter's shielded behind the coolant manifold!" I jammed Bernadette's hydraulic wrench into the housing, prying it loose. Lord Acorn's panicked silhouette lunged toward me through the flooded cockpit, pulse pistol firing wild bolts that sizzled into the riverbank's nature strip.
Mom's spliced cable snaked through the water like a live eel. "Static's failing!" she yelled as Acorn's screens flickered back to life—his treacherous transmission resuming. I shoved the wrench deeper into the coolant manifold, metal shrieking. Acorn's pulse pistol blast grazed my shoulder, searing fur and fabric. Sally plunged in beside me, claws scrabbling at the transmitter housing. "Damp terry cloth!" she gasped, ripping a sodden bundle from her utility belt—Jeffrey's smuggled towels, perfect for smothering electronics. She crammed the absorbent wad against the transmitter's heat vents.
Lord Acorn's hovercraft lurched violently as the clogged transmitter overheated. Smoke billowed from the vents, choking the cockpit. His transmission dissolved into garbled static—Northern Barony warlords demanding visual proof cut mid-sentence. "Patterns suppressed," Sally panted, clinging to the hull as the craft listed sideways. Mom hauled us onto the maintenance platform just as the engine coughed and died. Lord Acorn's silhouette thrashed behind the steam-clouded canopy, hammering useless controls.
The hovercraft drifted sideways, scraping against submerged rubble with a metallic groan. Lord Acorn kicked open the emergency hatch, coughing steam as he floundered waist-deep in the runoff. Sally watched him struggle, her expression detached yet precise. "He'll make for the Northern Baronies on foot," she stated flatly. "The old smuggler's trail cuts through Newark Ridge's eastern bluffs." Mom spat river water, already dragging herself onto the bank. "Then we cut him off. Jules needs him alive—or at the very least silenced."
We scrambled up the muddy incline toward the bluffs, Lord Acorn's splashing curses fading behind us. Sally moved with grim precision, quartz tiles clicking in her pocket like ammunition. "Jeffrey's supply logs show terry cloth shipments diverted to an eastern staging point," she stated, ducking beneath a dripping overhang. "Acorn will head there—dry towels mean dry schematics." Ahead, floodlights sliced through the mist where Jeffrey St. Croix's fruitarian transport idled, crates stacked hastily beside it.
"Freeze!" Rosemarie's voice cracked like ice from behind a crate, her vulpine muzzle smeared with mud. She leveled Jules' stolen pulse pistol at us—not panicked, but calculating. "Lord Acorn promised me Knothole's spa baths intact. You ruined that." Sally stepped forward, ignoring the weapon. "Jeffrey's diverting the towels north. He'll sell your baths to the Northern Baronies too." Rosemarie's tail twitched once, muzzle tightening. Outside, Lord Acorn stumbled into the floodlights, coughing river water onto Jeffrey's crates. "Rosemarie! Secure transport!"
Jeffrey St. Croix scrambled from the transport cab, fruitarian robes dripping. "The Baronies want Jules' head, not damp schematics!" Acorn shoved past him toward the crates. Sally snatched a terry cloth bundle, hurling it into a puddle. "Dry schematics won't save you." Acorn spun, pulse pistol trembling. "You insolent—" Rosemarie's shot sizzled past his ear, scorching the transport's hull. "The Northern Baronies want *Knothole*, Maxx. Not a disgraced king." Lord Acorn froze, muzzle slackening as betrayal dawned.
Sally lunged—not for weapons, but for the transport's ignition override. Sparks flew as she jammed quartz tiles into the console. The engine whined, then died. "Patterns reset," she stated. Rosemarie lowered her pistol slowly. "Jeffrey's smuggling route is compromised." Distant klaxons wailed—Jules' loyalists closing in. Lord Acorn dropped his pistol, staring at his dripping paws. Jeffrey scrambled backward into the mud. "The Northern Baronies won't honor deals with failed playwrights!" Lord Acorn whispered.
Mom emerged from the mist, hydraulic wrench gleaming. "Playtime's over, Maxx." Lord Acorn flinched, backing into Jeffrey's fruit crates. Rosemarie holstered her pistol, tail flicking dismissively. "The Northern Baronies prefer functional plumbing over failed monarchs. Surrender quietly." Lord Acorn's muzzle twisted, paw hovering over his comms unit—a final, desperate broadcast. Sally snatched a terry cloth bundle, hurling it onto the transport's sparking console. "Patterns dampened," she stated flatly. The comms unit fizzed into silence.
Jeffrey scrambled toward the bluffs, fruitarian robes snagging on thornbushes. "They'll skin us alive!" Lord Acorn didn't follow, staring at the mud-caked schematics leaking from Jeffrey's abandoned crate. "Patterns persist," Sally murmured, retrieving a sodden blueprint. Rosemarie kicked the transport's dead engine block. "Your Baronies won't pay for soggy war plans." Distant pulse rifles echoed—Jules' loyalists cresting the ridge. Lord Acorn slowly raised his paws, rainwater dripping from his muzzle onto the useless comms unit.
Mom clamped restraints on Lord Acorn's wrists, hydraulic wrench pressed against his spine. "Move." Jeffrey whimpered in the thornbushes, clutching torn robes. Rosemarie scooped mud-smeared schematics into a crate, tail flicking toward loyalist searchlights cresting the ridge. "Your Northern Baronies won't pay for soggy treason, Maxx. Cooperate, and maybe Jules spares your spa baths." Lord Acorn stumbled forward, muzzle twisted in silent fury.
Sally retrieved Jeffrey's terry cloth bundle from the transport console, wringing coolant onto dead controls. "Patterns reset," she repeated, louder this time. Jeffrey crawled from the thorns, trembling. "They'll excoriate us! The corrupt Walrus courts in Northern Barony territory!" Rosemarie shoved him toward the searchlights. "Better than Jules' interrogation chambers. Keep walking." Loyalist rifles clicked safeties off—twenty muzzles gleaming in the floodlights.
Jules emerged from the mist, fur singed from command center plasma fire but eyes blazing with victory. He ignored Lord Acorn's spluttered threats and spoke, "Thank you Maxx. Your incompetence has paved the way for a stronger Mobius." Jeffrey St. Croix whimpered as loyalists dragged him from the thornbushes, fruitarian robes shredded. Rosemarie calmly handed Jules the crate of mud-smeared schematics. "His Northern Barony allies expect dry treason. They'll receive soggy surrender instead."
His smile was one that actually reached his eyes for the first time, but not in a good way. "Dear guards," Jules said, gesturing toward Fort Knothole's main gate. "Escort our guests to the geothermal baths. They look... chilled." Loyalists hauled Lord Acorn and Jeffrey away, their muffled protests swallowed by the mist, "With the Overlanders' brutal retaliation on the Northern Baronies, and Commander Kintobor's Sky Armada destroyed no one strong enough is left to stop them both being crushed," Jules finished quietly. Sally tugged my sleeve, her paw tracing the quartz tiles in her pocket. "Rosemarie was right behind us," she murmured. "She had the crate."
We scanned the riverfronts – nothing but churned mud and abandoned fruit crates. No vulpine silhouette, no crate of schematics. Bernadette cursed softly, hydraulic wrench clenched tight. "She played us. Maxx was just a distraction." Sally nodded, already moving towards where Jeffrey once was. "Her spa baths are forfeit now. She'll need new leverage."
The mist parted near Newark Ridge's eastern bluffs. Footprints – deep vulpine tracks – vanished into the thornbushes where Jeffrey had crawled. Sally knelt, claws tracing the mud. "She doubled back towards Fort Knothole. Through the geothermal vents." Bernadette froze. "Those pipes run straight under Jules' interrogation chambers."
Inside Fort Knothole's maintenance tunnels, steam hissed from fractured conduits. Rosemarie's claw marks scored the alloy walls near a blown pressure valve. Sally sniffed the mineral-rich vapor. "Forty-five minutes ago. She's heading for the core schematics vault." Bernadette wrenched open a service panel. "Jules moved those yesterday. Only one person knows where."
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Rosemarie slid down a scalding vent pipe into Fort Knothole's abandoned bioplastics refinery, her fur singed by geothermal runoff. A shadow detached itself from behind a vat of polymer slurry—a brown-furred fox with light brown muzzle markings and cheek tufts, his large triangular ears twitching toward distant alarms. "Took you long enough, Mary," he murmured, light blue eyes scanning her empty paws. "Where are the schematics?" She pressed against him, tail flicking in agitation. "Gone. Jules moved the vault. Only Sally Acorn knows the new location."
He pulled her deeper into the refinery's gloom, claws clicking on damp grating. "Then we extract the princess. Jeffrey's fruitarian contacts in the Northern Hinterlands will shelter her—for a price." Rosemarie shook her head, droplets flying from her vulpine muzzle. "Sally's with Jules now. Guarded tighter than the core reactor." Her lover's ears flattened. "Then we radicalize the princess. Show her Jules' interrogation chambers. Make her choose truth over loyalty."
Overhead, heavy footsteps echoed—Jules' mechanized cavalry securing the refinery sector. Rosemarie's lover pressed her against a dripping polymer vat, his triangular ears swiveling toward the sounds. "They're sealing the vents," he breathed, light brown muzzle fur brushing her temple. "We need Sally Acorn's access codes *now*." Rosemarie clawed at a utility panel, revealing steam-clogged service tunnels. "She counts everything—tile patterns, pressure valves. Find her counting journal. It's the key." He nodded, slipping into the steam like smoke. "Distract Jules. Buy me time."
Rosemarie emerged near the interrogation block's secondary entrance, where Jules' guards were hauling Jeffrey St. Croix toward the baths. She hurled a sonic detonator—salvaged from Kintobor's wreckage—down the corridor. The blast shredded coolant pipes, flooding the passage with scalding mist. Guards scattered, coughing. "Sabotage!" one yelled. Jules' voice crackled over comms: "Secure Sally Acorn! Rosemarie's targeting her!" Loyalists scrambled toward Sally's quarters, abandoning Jeffrey in the chaos. Rosemarie slipped into the steam, upcoming chaos unseen.
Her lover—a lean fox named Amedeo Prower—materialized near the geothermal vent's outflow pipe, brown fur streaked with mineral deposits. Light brown tufts framed his muzzle, triangular ears flicking river spray as he scanned the refinery's flooded grating. "Jeffrey's Hinterland contacts demand proof of Sally's defection before sheltering her," he hissed, claws clicking on damp metal. "Not dry towels—wet rebellion." Rosemarie shoved a coolant-smeared quartz tile into his paw—one Sally had dropped during their river chase. "Her counting journal's encrypted in these patterns. Decrypt it, and we prove Sally's disillusionment." Amedeo pocketed the tile, blue eyes narrowing. "Jules moved the core vault yesterday. Where?"
Rosemarie pressed against a polymer vat, tail flicking toward Fort Knothole's central spire. "Sally rerouted the vault's registration to Newark Ridge's abandoned bubble chamber—that geodesic dome near the storm drains." Steam hissed from fractured conduits above them. "Access requires Sally's biometrics *and* her counting sequence for the chamber's pressure valves." Amedeo's ears flattened. "Then we replicate her obsession. Find where she tallied the dome's valve rotations." Distant klaxons wailed—loyalist patrols sweeping nearby sectors. Rosemarie shoved him toward a service duct. "Her old hideout. Sector Gamma's derelict reparative therapy wing. She logged everything there."
Amedeo slipped into the duct as Rosemarie doubled back toward the interrogation block. Jules' guards were dragging a shivering Jeffrey St. Croix from the baths, fruitarian robes dripping. She hurled Kintobor's sonic detonator into a steam conduit—the blast shredded pipes, flooding the corridor with scalding mist. Guards scattered, coughing. "Rosemarie's breaching Sally's quarters!" Jules' voice crackled over comms. Loyalists abandoned Jeffrey, scrambling toward the princess' chamber. Rosemarie darted past the fruitarian, snatching his terry cloth belt—smuggled sensor schematics still sewn into the lining.
She melted into the steam, heading for Sector Gamma. Jeffrey whimpered into his soaked robes, unnoticed. Above, Sally's quartz-tile counting journal lay open in Amedeo's claws, its patterns mirroring the bubble chamber's valve sequence. The dome's registration codes glowed on a cracked terminal—Fort Knothole's core schematics shimmering behind reinforced glass. Amedeo's claws hovered over the keypad, Sally's sequence memorized. One input, and the Northern Baronies would own Mobius' heartbeat.
"*Troppo semplice, principessa*," Amedeo murmured, the foreign vowels curling like smoke in the humid air. His claw hovered over the cracked terminal, Sally's quartz-tile counting sequence etched in his mind—each valve rotation a digit in Fort Knothole's final surrender code. The bubble chamber's reinforced glass hummed faintly, core schematics shimmering like trapped ghosts. Outside, loyalist patrols echoed through Sector Gamma's derelict halls. One input, and Northern Barony warlords would hold Mobius' heartbeat in their claws. His triangular ears twitched toward the dripping vents. Rosemarie's distraction wouldn't last forever.
He punched the sequence—*click-click-CLACK*—but the terminal spat static. "*Maledizione!*" Amedeo hissed, slamming a fist against the console. The dome's registration codes flickered, then died. Sally had changed her pattern. Again. Behind him, steam hissed louder through fractured conduits, carrying the metallic tang of overloaded coolant pumps. Jules' forces were rerouting power, sealing the vents. Time bled away like the mineral runoff pooling at his boots. He needed Sally's new obsession—*now*.
Rosemarie burst through the service duct, fur singed, Jeffrey's terry cloth belt clutched in her claws. "The princess shifted her tallies!"