Wilkes straightens his army ant helmet and thanks God. Minutes ago, they exited the old house full of paranoia. Then came the hullabaloo, a maddening hot jazz one note puncturing the chords of sanity. The Noise. Falling to the ground, Benny reasoned only the helmets were keeping the two conscious, slapping down Wilkes' as he was about to remove it to check on their people. Good save, Brown Bear.

He nestles into the cockpit of the Helldiver, Doctor Sadie Zafra (so she says. Wilkes also isn't so sure) and Turner KO'd in the back seat, a tight fit but a fit nonetheless. Deep breaths. The Noise manages to still pierce his ear lobes, a nagging pig squeal. But it's faltering. Wilkes slaps his chest, waits for the heart to slow. They just about died inside, then outside. Come on, nerves of steel!

There it is. Anger, as necessary to warriors as air, fires up the throat. Remember what happened. Lives lost. Love lost. He taps the jacket before unzipping it to dig into a pocket. Out she comes. A photograph, black and white, crease lines at the bent corners. There's a plane in the photo, a swarthy Ford Tri-Motor, banged up by a dozen adventures. Stepping out the door of the aircraft is a woman. She's vibrant, blond hair blown over a triangular face, coveralls and leather jacket soiled. The world in the photo holds limitless fun. He can't even recall that world. The two of them shared unbelievable escapades. He can't bring even one to the forefront because the joy is a murky tarpit. Slicks shot it down, shattered them like glass orbs on the street. Who was she? Who was he back then?

"Kathy...the drinking...so trivial now."

Rage heats up the blood. Carson feels the hurt load up like rounds of ammo jammed up his spine. There used to be a carefree attitude in the world, one that carried Wilkes and his love around the world. Those paradisiac days were done in by Hitler, by Mussolini and now by Motherville.

Bastards. Why do you have to take everything?

He's ready to open fire until everything made of metal within a hundred miles is reduced to poker chips. He shoves the stick of the Helldiver, and the machine takes a step forward.

"Benjamin, are you ready to push on?"

There's a snarl in that question.

***

The targeting scope sits just left in his line of sight as he gazes out the cockpit. Benny has stared at the city forever, until it ceased to be, became first a blur and then nothing. Wilmington splits into a kaleidoscope of radiant pinpoints amidst waves of black anguish. Life is unreal. He stops being. Time lapses to zero. No Earth. No war. No Benjamin Haskins.

At first he did so to tough out the pain, a trick acquired in the last great War to End all Optimism, but a partial hit of morphine in the mostly cleaned out wound helped that (keeping a vial on him being another trick). But once he groaned from hoisting Traveler Gray into Milkman, thoughts wisped away from the wound, the last shootout, having an aerial legend in their midst. Aggravating ringing of the eardrums. One point mattered above all.

"Please God, let Frederica be alright."

He feels it right to speak her birth name, uncertain as he is if the Lord responds to nicknames. Prayer comes easier once dire straits are present. He rubs the many buttons and control stick to come back to the physical world.

Nothing. Gray. Light. Color. Sound. Touch. City. Plane. Numb pain. Warfare. Get to jumpin'.

"Benjamin, are you ready to push on?"

Breathing, the final stage of existence, kicks like a mule. Benny taps his helmet. He remembers a ringing, but it's like recalling a dream from childhood: warning his brother to keep the helmet on, three people passing out, bloody noses. When did these events occur?

"What?" He realizes right away the tone is vile. In the back, Gray begins to stir and moan in the cubby hole he's jammed into. "Sorry, Corporal. Yeah. Let's make like birds and fly out of this coop."

Stick shoved. Milkman begins to sprint. There's a lot of ground to cover.

***

I need Crank.

Fevered in the brain but not one to lose his senses, Roy hits La Donna's brakes hard. Rubber burns into the street as he makes a hard turnaround.
A hand fumbles for the radio handle.

"Fuse to Crank. Fuse to Crank! Come in!"

Radio buzzes. White noise hums calm normally, but today it infuriates. Without warning the channels do the Lindy Hop, skipping about every frequency.

...we take you now to the Great Atlantic Wall, where an unusual alliance forms. The Nazi regime is opening its gates to let in the Allied forces, desperate to rid France and the Fatherland of a threat much more severe...

...oosevelt believed to be hiding in a bunker at an undisclosed...

Roy supposes the propaganda pieces to calm the public are over. Every fidgety channel is about the effects of Motherville. No big bands to wash away the blues. No comedy acts or serial dramas. Doom and gloom.

"Crank! Come in, Crank!"

"I hear you, Roy Fuse."

Screech! La Donna jerks back and forth on the stop. She comes to a rest at the destroyed bridge, the still smoldering oil containers gone bye bye. Roy wants to kick himself. No bridge! How could he get to the antenna if he can't cross to Pennsville? Even worse, that response--

"Motherville." Roy mumbles it.

"Yes. I dreamt about you last night. You build. You know signals. You move them in waves and beams. A new signal tuning in to my show. Have you seen my growth?"

How can she hear me? Radio has no listening capability. He looks beyond the smoke and ruins to the hand antenna in the distance. Ah. Sending and receiving. And controlling...

"Growth? Yes, we've seen it alright." This invasiveness has caught him flat-footed. It makes him angry. "What is you want, besides killing some of us without cause and abusing others?"

...

"Well? You broke into my call. Answer me, you monster!"

"The signals are too good. They let me grow. Dreams. I dream here. What should I do with them?"

Choke on them! "Listen, why don't you find yourself a good psychoanalyst, and leave us alone! Better yet, crawl back down whatever hole you came out of!"

...

"But the signals are too good. You do not understand." A hollow click echoes from the radio. Its dull green-yellow light dies out.

An impassioned urge to punch the console is held in check by closing the eyes. As a boy, Roy's mother advised against rage. Her remedy for anger involved a close eyed, meditative dwelling on a peaceful locale. Since then, Roy kept calm envisioning the old family tea house out on the farm. Small but empty, simple yet secure, it was the sole representation he once had of perfection and peace. It got harder to picture it once neighbors tore down the 'Jap' hideout, shipped his folks off to the desert. Today, he needed that tea house of the mind to keep him on the up and up.

Come on. Come on.

Nothing appears. Just a once beloved farm field, tended to by stiff men in denim coveralls with eyes of one red lens, one green lens on absent faces. Black pills going into tilled soil.

"We grow."

Eyes open! Palms are clammy, breathing shallow. It's stifling in the car. Now he wishes he had a paper bag to breathe in. Roy rolls down the window. Frosty air is a godsend, bringing him back to life.

He turns the knob on the radio. It glows once more. Eureka.

"Crank, this is Fuse. Are you there?"

"Yes. I've been responding for over five minutes now. Where are you? Are you alright?" An accent never sounded so sweet.

"At the bridge. We need to get to Pennsville fast. Motherville has- -I'm coming to get you."

"Roger that. I'm ready."

Foot beats up the accelerator. Fuse steers the car about face, heading for the National Bank, full throttle.

***

Loosening and tightening spring joints and metal banging on asphalt should have Slicks raining down on Milkman and its Helldiver partner. But the entire run down the disenchanted streets of Wilmington nets not one patrol unit or even a solitary drone.

Wilkes finally lowers the titanium shields as they make it, at long last, to this end of the Christina River. They see the indicator, a sign dinged by a dozen machinegun rounds but still hanging high:

DRAVO CORPORATION

One of many companies contracted across the country to build, build, build for the war machine, today Dravo's giant cranes and torches are dead quiet. On a good day, this place puts out Landing Ship Mediums, LSM's, that transport men and supplies right up to foreign, scarred beaches overseas.

Right now, it's a blessing. No enemy in sight and no distractions. As the three passengers once laid low by the Noise come to, Benny and Carson eject, double time.

"Gotta be fifty caliber rounds here somewhere. They had to be putting them in the ships or tanks." Benny talks while uncapping Milkman for a hearty dinner of black crude.

Wilkes uncaps as well, but focuses on his plane's streaks. Paint job is marred by the gentle caresses of flak on the flyby earlier. "Good thinking. Even better if we load up and store our planes on that LSM out there. Sail it to Salem, guns blazing."

"Not bad. They said a robot tank is on it. Could use it. But, you ever navigate a ship before?"

"Boats, plenty. A ship? No."

"I, uh, we, can help with that." Roscoe Turner just about breaks his neck getting out of the Helldiver. "We learned the ship's workings while doing other projects. She's a real Viking, Dee-Ee-One-Seven-Ex. Took pounds of trial and a ton of error to get her right." He cracks his back, groans, finds the river and points to the sole ship out there. "Lots of bells and whistles."

Benny drags out a fuel line, attaches it, turns the release valve. The once bright paint of Milkman carrying a basket o' boom on his plane's nose is smudged. It bothers him."Good to know. And, ah, pleasure to meet an ace like you and designer, by the way." Walking reinvigorates the leg woes, so Haskins focuses on something cheerful.

"What? Oh, yes. I apologize. Ringing in my ears..." He inhales deep to give the brain more oxygen. Turner rubs the small moustache under his nose, stretches his lean figure. Seems to do the trick. "But, ah, no fifty caliber ammunition. Not one. Forty millimeter we've got aplenty."

Benny stares. Wilkes, awaiting the line for the diesel, spits. "None? But we're spent, bombs and rockets too."

"Well, rockets we've got." Traveler Gray has come to, assisting Doctor Zafra out of the Helldiver. "HVAR's, the type Milkman carries. Supposed to have gone to the boys in the U.K. Thousand-pound bombs also. We can put one on this remarkable biplane."

Milkman is topped off. Benny hands Wilkes the hose and a fearsome look. "A handful of Holy Moses and one bomb, in this whole place? Listen, Jack, you cats might be technically adept, but you ain't fighting any battle without a constant stream of hot lead. Not happening." Benny march-limps to the nearest door. "Hope you all are real good with this ship. She better make major waves!"

"Most armaments are shipped out as fast as they come in. Rest assured, Traveler Haskins," Zafra speaks up, "she will do more than that." She wobbles over to Carson Wilkes, staring up at a murky sun as if it were an X factor. "Tell me, Corporal, do either of you understand what Motherville's intentions are?"

He stared, having not a clue. But by the tone of Zafra's voice, Wilkes had a sinking feeling this lady did.

***

Tool bag? Check. Leather work gloves? Check. Friends in good hands? Check. Reports from civilians on street battles? Check. Stability? Well...

Crank is exposed to the cold, standing on a star built into the corner sidewalk. Her head is clear. The city is silent. Outside, an Army truck is at peace. Debris and white dust blow in a mild breeze. She's thanking God the doctor said Skinny will pull through, with Larry a possibility. Before she walked out the door, Crank slipped Skinny's partner Clarice, clean and loaded, under his pillow. You never know.

But Benny is on her mind. Benny Haskins feels so near and yet so far. His warm body. His agile lips. His confident voice. Right now she has memories to hug. Whatever has been taken from us, I will repay.

La Donna screams to a stop. Crank finds her baby driven by Roy, dusted by the pearly white makeup of the universe. He appears as angry as she feels.

"Fuse!" She waves him ahead, to get the old girl on Market facing north. Crank hops to her baby, scanning every inch of her on the way while Roy switches to shotgun.

"Mechanic Crank." Roy isn't looking at her. He's someplace else. She knows the look. "Got reports from all over Salem. Everyone from farmers with shotguns to folks on Carpenter Street packing pistols in their socks has struck back at every Slick wandering around. This town doesn't mess around." Still, Fuse is mute.

"Motherville?"

"Yes. Spoke to me directly, through this radio. Said she...dreamt about me." He shivers. She can empathize.

Crank shuts off the radio, and floors the accelerator. La Donna is up and out of Salem in seconds. "Why aren't you speaking Japanese?"

He's startled by her question as much as he is by how relaxed she is driving at over one hundred miles per hour. Roy grips the car door. "Excuse me?"

"The white stuff. Stardust. Anaesthetic. Space seeds, or whatever. It took me far away, first from here, then from the present." She listens to the words coming off her tongue. "Yes, the present. Temporal displacement. First time I've said it out loud. Like something out of Amazing Stories! Hmm. Where was I? Oh yes. I only spoke Italian until I was seven years old. You experienced it, but show no signs of reversal."

"I never learned more than a few words in Japanese. My parents wanted me to be full American. But, I was easily angered in my youth, so maybe..."

"Ah. And you say she dreamt of you? Benny and I each have had some very, disturbing dreams since coming to Salem." The length of her sigh, the shifting in the seat confirms just how disturbing.

"Her statement to me seemed, emotive, almost erotic. I think she may be tapping people as power plants, but is inadvertantly getting to be irrational."

Crank looks into Roy. It scares him, that look, her eyes not being on the road. She banks left though, no problem. "How so?"

Roy catches his breath, his anger is up and gone. "She called me, and humans, signals. We're a narcotic, and an irresistible one at that."

"And like any host-parasite relationship, we get some of her energy as she gets ours. Signals are crossing." La Donna careens down a winding country road of sparse houses and passive cows. Whole reams of the county zip by.

"The dreams. And more power allows Motherville to expand her computational abilities."

"Which she'd need for the intricate but sporadic global intrigues she's been involved in." Crank slows down her baby at an intersection. Hit the brakes! "We cut through Deepwater and into Pennsville from this way. Hold on."

Burning rubber, the emerald car tears down Highway 130. Deepwater, tiny box homes built for DuPont employees, is but a blur. Roy begins to understand mortality.

"She told me about her growth. She's...proud of it. Mind you, Crank, I'm not buying a robot being complex enough to handle human emotions--"

"I can. You should read science fiction to help expand on your science. We have to imagine as much as we have to reason. But what you said explains a lot, her femininity. She relates as a woman, sees men as dull pawns. No offense." She casts a sympathetic eye his way.

"None taken. My wife would say something similar, were she here. But, other than rapid expansion, what does she want?"

"Maybe that's it. Freedom to grow without end. Maybe not. Any form of exponential growth is a bad way to go. Hopefully once we reach this antenna, we'll get more answers."

La Donna roars on. Down and roundabout but at the dawn of Pennsville fast as Bugs Bunny with a rocket pack. One hundred and twenty. One thirty. One forty-five...

***

"Press on, fellas. Press on."

Seems like ages ago two GI's woke up from an ear splitting bomb. They guess it was a bomb, anyway. Their three wounded compadres, though, survive but remain unresponsive. Fit to be tied, the duo abandon Fort Mott's broiling scabs to undertake a mission lacking sense or evidence. But they can't be idle, can't play sitting duck any longer. No one is coming.

A fighter plane raced by earlier, a plane afire, pursued by the enemy and crashing. They aim to find it, check for a survivor.

Why not? When nonsense drops down, humanity rises.

They covered the serpentine road out of the fort, accompanied only by blowing reeds, a few fearless crows. Now, beyond old Finn's lighthouse set up for an invasion from Spain that never came, they see the objective.

"See, Jake?" Thurman Willis is skinnier than a broomstick, but more wiry than a bobcat. The only weight on him is a thick mop of dirty blond hair. His olive drabs hang on his young bones. "All this wreckage, the skid marks. That Airacobra's gotta be in the trees maybe?"

Jake Goldman is dark in hair, eyes and mood. This calamity called Motherville is not the war he left his wee Jewish neighborhood in Chicago to fight. "I suppose. Nothing here but Slick parts. How'd the pilot fight 'em off? From my view he seemed about outta bullets."

This lone, maverick pilot must have gone down like a mad dog. Slicks are scattered all over, arms pulled out, crushed lenses, scissor hands rotating at bare minimum. Collisions have cracked the road surface. Naked trees are dressed in dancing flames. Diesel fuel discolors dead grass. Pastoral serenity of this riverside area is traumatized.

"Wait. What's that?" Thurman takes of the M1, as if the act will improve his hearing. "That screeching sound."

Jake loads a clip into the top of his Garand, gains comfort from it in his hands. He's taking no chances. In the trees ahead, where debris piles high, flames and junk shift. "Come on! Get in this ditch!" He pulls the watchful Willis down to the thoughtless ground. They have a shallow hole and a field of blighted grass as cover.

"Maybe it's--"

"Shh! Load up!" Jake takes aim. The hill of junk shuffles. Observation reveals what remains of a barn, burning to nothing. Slick anatomy is tossed about by a large mechanical hand with spiked knuckles. Jake shifts his weight,nerves are getting the better of him. "We're not equipped to handle 'em on our own!"

"Just hold on. I think it's too big to be a Slick."

A barn wall bright orange with flame collapses. Behind a veil of ashes stands a man of metal. The body is too broad, headless at that, hands too large to be one of Motherville's children. This thing almost as tall as the smoking, splintered trees is American made.

"It's one of ours. The Airacobra! See the markings? Grew limbs? Am I seeing right?"

Thurman smacks his buddy on the neck. "About time we got some good news! Woo-hoo!" He gives up the ditch to hit the ground running.

Jake follows, but walks and keeps his rifle at the ready.

Thurman dons his helmet and approaches the machine like it's an old friend. He waves like crazy. "Hey! Hey up there! You okay?"

Machine turns their way, screeching, throbbing engine, a panel falling off the rear. It moves like a flamingo, arms flat and held outward, thin legs. Bullet streaks leave long indentations, A panel of the forward fuselage is missing, revealing an overworked radial engine. One machinegun barrel is bent, propeller gnarled. Still, this aircraft with limbs staggers out of the carnage.

"Think I'm in one piece! Is the speaker working! 'ZZZZRRRRRZZZZT!"

GI's clasping their ears answers the question. In the cockpit of the beaten machine, Delvin Parks removes an asphyxiating helmet to rub a brow tortured by a migraine. The other gloved hand traces a crack in the cockpit glass. "Dang, I'm shot up six ways to Sunday." Young bones ache. At the last minute, switching to robotic mode threw the Slicks off their victorious game. Using the woods and a barn as cushions while wrestling a swarm of violent propeller-bots required a degree of dexterity Parks never knew he had. Down the road he views over a hundred yards of crash combat. "Heh. Three point landing."

A minute after kicking the hatch open, Parks climbs out and down, seeing the two soldiers below as he descends. "Man, oh man! Fuselage busted. Armature One's lost the main power cable. Hey y'all, watch that dangling cable! Live wire!" Parks hops to the ground. Legs quiver. Feels like he hasn't walked in days.

"Wow! You looking to get a medal?"

"Nah, man. Tryin' to survive is all." He pauses, waiting for the white soldiers to express a problem with him. He had heard other fellas out of Tuskegee got it rough from their Caucasian peers. When they don't, the migraine lessens. "You guys from the Fort Mott battle?"

"Yep." Jake removes his helmet.

"How'd we do? Looked bad from above but, we're here, right? How many made it?"

Jake grabs tufts of hair on his scalp, hurls the helmet. Thurman massages his rifle.

"Us. Us and uh, three others. That's it."

Delvin falls back but plays it cool, as if he's sitting down on reassuring earth. "Oh? Man. Sorry. I can't believe it's that bad..." Hands support a head unable to support the weight of war.

Thurman sees these two disparate souls collapsing, but he can't succumb. Kid's straw outside, diamond within. "How about your boys in the fancy fighters? They must have made it."

Parks comes to some. "Communication went by the wayside once the stinging noise happened. Lost Teller, of that I know." He pauses to give a silent memoriam for a truly brave warrior. "The others either gotta be back at base, stuck in Delaware or..." He scans the sky. No dogfights. Is it a good sign or a bad one?

"I hear you." Thurman offers a hand up. Parks takes it. "Figure we need to go back and protect our fellow brothers."

"Yeah'" Parks wipes off his pants, studies his plane. "You know what? Baby's still good for walking and most of my guns work. We need every piece of firepower we can get. Y'all wanna ride on the arms?"

Jake looks up at the machine, its gashes and dings. Looks like a veteran from the last three wars, not a newly minted war machine. "I don't know. Thurm?"

"We gotta wait first." Thurman, ever alert, eyes the road. Those ears discern a rumbling.

"Wait why? Slicks ain't gonna wait for us."

Thurman walks into the middle of the road, raising his hands. "We got a car coming our way."

He's right. A car of metallic green, speckled bone white, is blazing their way like a V-1 rocket.

***

You've got to be kidding me.

Bomb and rockets are loaded. Planes are full, loaded onto LSM DE-17-X. But serenity has offered Benny more frustration. Turner is right. No fifty-cal bullets.

If the ship sinks and we need the planes to fight--

On a good note, Doctor Sadie Zafra can clean and bandage a wound like a pro. But Benny being here, sitting on a desk with his pants down in front of another woman feels awkward. She patches up the Brown Bear. He regroups, turns to hide a face flush with embarrassment.

"Traveler Haskins?" Doctor Zafra's interruption, a question echoing off the factory walls, startles Benny but good. She noticed the shame, didn't she?

"Oh! Doc, it's a bad idea to sneak up on a man while he's distracted, especially these days. What can I do for you?" He studies her face, realizing every glance is a knowing comparison of the Doc to Crank. Her eyes are humongous balls of white glass with sepia tint, giving a softness to an otherwise plain face.

"I worked with Doctor Sorbonne on poly-planar dynamics and extrapolations of waveform pattern disruptions." She stares as if awaiting...

"I don't know what any of this means, Doc." Whew! It's not about uncomfortable scenarios, but confusing scientific jargon. Benny feels his head is about to hurt even more.

"Basically we hypothesize other dimensions, more than one universe existing, separated by energy fields."

Blank.

"Imagine our universe as a whole is a droplet of water on a leaf. Other droplets represent other universes. Each may have varying physical laws, and are kept apart by their surface tension, as it were. We call them waveform patterns."

Hands on hips, Benny tries to follow, hoping comprehension somehow will lead to ammunition he can use. "Uh-huh. So, what does the leaf represent?"

Her head lurches back. "Most people don't think to ask that."

He heads for the entrance. "Yeah well, they say I'm a big lug, but even I have my moments. Go on."

"We detected a pattern disruption any time up to twelve seconds before Motherville appeared on Earth. Granted, she had done do numerous times before and we were--"

"Behind the eight ball?"

"If it means a lot of catching up to do, yes. While she destroyed our detection equipment, even the Exotic Planes Institute, we did uncover her pattern is more frequent in relation to her expansion, though the disparity remained."

Benny watches Wilkes, Turner and Gray prepping the ship. She's a long, narrow vessel with a flat deck for heavy cargo. It rises at the front, with the bridge atop several decks at the rear. One the platform are Milkman, the Helldiver and two M3 tanks: medium armor, high stiff turrets, seventy-five and thirty-seven millimeter guns jutting out. They look dull, treads have seen action somewhere in the world. Ship starts running. Benny snaps out of it. "You said disparity?"

Doc hisses. "Yes. Despite her successful raids, Motherville's sudden appearances worldwide are typically off the mark, defying explanation."

"Heh! Well, that broad has a lot of tricks, do don't let her fool you."

"We did not. We knew these planar apertures must expend enormous sums of energy. With what she has collected in her own reality, plus the richer energies here, Doctor Sorbonne theorized the expenditure is not the problem."

Planar apertures? Energy rich? "Okay, Doc. This is all well and good, but unless this has anything to do with stopping her, killing her--"

"Motherville is drunk." Zafra snips off Benny's sentence to paste on her own, flavored with bitter impatience.

Benny looks down at the lady as she bites her lip. Apparently he's pissed her off, but isn't sure how and doesn't have all day to figure it out. So, on with the show. "Drunk?"

"She has never had this much energy to feast on. Even in a machine this must have repercussions. A flooded engine will not start. Also, we feel she garners more from humans, but just how so..."

"Dreams," Benny whispers, an icicle chill crawls down his back. "She enters our dreams in Salem." The horrible past tries to resurface. Benny, mentally, kicks down into the abyss of forgetfulness.

"If that is so, such emotional resonance would only confuse her more. And, it would further feed her lust for growth."

The mind of Haskins snaps shut on the case. "I think you've got it, Doc. We're not fighting an organized military. That's why things are so screwy. Even that 'attack at four-thirty' jazz was, what? Oh. An attempt to right her own ship. Look stable."

"Perhaps. Motherville wants to be free, but it's at our expense. Like any drunkard, the liberation is worth the cost. Cause and effect mean little. Have you ever seen a drunk in a fight, even a car crash?"

"I may have been one of those, once or twice. The carefree attitude."

"Yes. She is intoxicated, having the time of her life. She can't see how it hurts others. If she had any empathy, it has been drowned out by the continual intake of power."

Benny limps along the gangplank. The river below holds a pristine calm. It contrasts the whirling, bold spin of the Salem River he's come to love flying over. Doc follows behind.

"So, she'll need to harness this power, right? I mean, where's it being stored? In our world (pause- he can't believe he's asking this Looney Tunes question), or hers?"

Zafra loses her scientific assurance. "We're-- I'm not sure. Not yet, anyway."

"Benny!" Wilkes comes running out of the ship. "We've managed to hail the guys at the Hangar. They asked if we can see the 'Hand', some kind of antenna Motherville erected near Pea Patch Island."

Benny almost slaps his messed up leg. "That's the ticket! Gal has to have mechanisms large enough to absorb and emit signals. Go big or go home. Turner! Hey, Turner!

High up on the bridge, a figure steps out on the railing. "Ready?"

"Let's get going and find this antenna lickety split!"

"Aye aye!" No sooner does he vanish, the slender ship lumbers forward.

Benny wonders when is the last time he's been on a ship. It's a good day for sailing on the high seas. The cold is dying down. Perhaps this voyage will be--

"What's that?" He surveys the deck but finds everyone is still.

Wilkes copies. "Yes. A buzzing sound, coming from...oh no."

Sadie's scream pierces the buzz. Benny takes a hold of her as she clutches her face, stark raving mad from fear.

There are Slicks in the air, dark blots, coming fast. Must be ten or twelve of them.

"Arriving from our rear..." Benny sees the guns on X. Not a single one is prepared or loaded, much less facing aft. Muscles bulge. He shoves Sadie towards the hatch. "Get inside! Tell them to go full speed! Now!" He hobbles first to one if the tanks. Might be able to get in, aim a gun...

Wilkes beats him to it. "Benny, I've a wee amount of tank training. I'll handle one. Go and--"

Benny's already gone. Gone, that is, toward Milkman. He's in the hot seat, plugged in and has the old girl on the run. In a crunch of gears the machine scales decks like a clumsy King Kong. Slicks are in firing range as Benny gets to the top of the ship.

Rounds froth up the river as the first six robots go over. Tank fires at their tails, nicking one at the feet. The second wave, a clear five figures, dives much lower. Milkman invites them to taste a fresh double scoop of explosive.

Rockets away.

Two bots bite the big one, while three dip into a triangle pattern.

They swoop by in a clan and a chug. Two out of three are tossed off course but remain parallel to each other. Something has them by the throat. Milkman.

In a daring, suicidal move, Milkman jumps up and takes the offensive by the reins. Slicks One and Two are stymied, ceasing their barrage to deal with the current dilemma. Off and away from X they sputter, two black flies weighed down by an ornery beetle.

This is the dumbest thing I've ever done! Milkman's rocking up and down is enough to give Benny motion sickness. On the upswing, Slick propellers miss dicing up the cockpit hatch by a nose. On the downward jerk, the stomach lurches. Gotta think my way out of this death trap fast. He flicks the ignition. At the rear, a robust propeller in a mighty protective ring bursts to life. Milkman seems to float u and back. He can feel the drag, his engine heading southwest, theirs northeast. But Slicks don't have enough horsepower, even in tandem. They fly on the cheap.

Milkman shows them how it's done, ruining their trajectory. One has its engine give out. Two breaks out of the hold only to find it is veering for the Delaware marshlands. Milkman lets go and waves goodbye.

That's when Benny sees the Hand. It's expansive, with a disjointed ring of metal surrounding the island, a gothic bridge curving into Jersey, into the Pennsville woods. My God.

Then, Milkman falters. The blue-brown waters of the Delaware are coming up fast.

Shoot! Forgot to extend the arms back into wings! He jams the switch to initiate the change, practically punches it. Legs ahead. Arms to the side and level. One check. One check...

C'mon, wing. Straighten out! The right limb is bent at a forty-five degree angle. Not getting any lift that way. One wing sends the plane into a spiralling dive. Benny jams the switch again, toggles the emergency override. Limb fidgets and only fidgets as the End grows larger and inevitable--