"Kyle, this wretched phone is flashing again."

"Yes, Prime Minister. That's Admiral Ryback for you. On line one."

"Admiral who?"

"Ryback, ma'am."

"Right. And who's he?"

"The head of USINDOPACOM, ma'am."

"Usindowhaton?"

"USINDOPACOM, ma'am. The United States Indo-Pacific Command."

"Wow, catchy name. So, I take it this guy's the head-honcho of their military in these parts?"

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"Excellent. Now, obviously I press...1?"

"Yes, Prime Minister."

"Okay, let's see—"

"Uh, not that particular 1, I'm afraid, Prime Minister. That's the button to dial 1. You need to press the button for line 1. At the top of the phone there."

"I've got a degree, you know. A bloody masters degree in political science."

"Yes, Prime Minister. I'm aware."

"Right. Just so long as that's clear. This button?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Okay, good, fine. That's what I thought. Now, bugger off and see if you can't find out who the treasurer's been schmoozing with lately. I don't like the dreamy look that snake's had in his eyes these last few days. Off you go. Ahem. Hello, admiral. Thank you so much for getting back to us."

"No problem at all, Prime Minister." 

"Please, no need to stand on ceremony, admiral. Call me Moira."

"Of course, Moira. And you can call me Jim. Naturally, we always have time for our friends in Australia. Now, how can I help you?"

"Well, strictly speaking, Jim, it's not actually us who needs the help."

"Ah, I see. You're referring to the New Zealand situation. A curious business, isn't it?"

"Curious? That's certainly one word for it. Disastrous might be another."

"Yes, their military, such as it is, does appear to be making rather a hash of the situation. Most unfortunate for them."

"Most unfortunate indeed, Jim. Things are looking pretty grim for the poor old Kiwis. So grim I'm sure you'd agree they're in need of some serious aid."

"Oh yes, no question, Moira. And naturally, the US will do all it can to help out. Our ambassador has been in touch with their Prime Minister to offer our heartfelt moral support, and I'm sure we can rustle up some aid packages for all those New Zealanders who have been displaced. After all, there's nothing quite like a good old Hershey bar or Twinkie to pick you up when you're down."

"Ah...no. No, I suppose not. Having said that, are you not thinking something a little more substantial than Twinkies and moral support might be called for in this situation?"

"Well, I don't know, Moira. Never underestimate the restorative power of a Twinkie. But you see, when it comes to support of a more...robust nature, that's where things become just a little tricky. I'm sure I don't need to remind you our last few international, er...ventures haven't gone quite as smoothly as we might have liked. No, not at all. Consequently, the feeling back in Washington is that it would be advisable to take a more cautious approach when intervening in foreign affairs. A less, ah...forceful approach."

"Is that so?"

"I'm afraid it is, Moira. Given the current climate, I just don't see how I could recommend to the Joint Chiefs that we provide military aid to our Kiwi friends. And that's even before we get into the somewhat questionable diplomatic status of the opposing forces."

"Wonderful, Jim. I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that." 

"Now, I know you must be disappointed, but I'm sorry, Moira, my mind is quite made up. There's simply no way I can...wait, what?"

"Yes, that's really excellent news. I was worried I may have to twist your arm to stay out of it."

"Huh? What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?"

"Well, Jim, not to put too fine a point on it, it's pretty clear—as you say—American influence in the Pacific is on the wane. And that's fine, we understand. I mean, we all have our limitations. And we can't expect you guys to be the world's sheriff forever."

"On the wane? Limitations?"

"Don't worry, Jim. It happens to the best of us. Nobody stays on top indefinitely. Look at the Brits. Hell, look at the Romans. But hey, don't sweat it. It's high time we Aussies upped our game and showed we're ready to take your place around here. You guys just worry about your own backyard—I mean, we all know you have plenty of weeds to sort out—and let us show the world who's the big dog around here now."

"I'm sorry, Moira. Did you just say, 'big dog'"?

"Why, yes I did, Jim. Is there a problem? I mean, it's just a figure of—"

"You know, on further reflection, Moira, I believe I spoke a little hastily before. I mean, it would hardly be in the spirit of our alliance to leave our Kiwi friends to the trolls, would it? I'm sure we can rustle up a few units to help them out. After all, how much trouble can a rabble of second-rate D&D rip-offs be?" 

"Well, that's very generous, Jim, but really not necessary. I can assure you, we've got this cov—"

"Now, now, Moira. That's quite enough. We won't take no for an answer. I'll brief the Joint Chiefs, stat."

"I really must protest—"

"Moira, please. While it's true America and Australia have been partners—friends—for a very long time, it would be wise not to forget just who's the senior partner around here. The big brother in our little Pacific family, if you like, ha-ha."

"Yes, but—"

"Look, it's lovely chatting to you, Moira, as always, but I really must go. I have an operation to plan. One of my aides or somebody will be in touch at some point. Probably. Ryback out."

"Hello? Hello, Jim? Are you there? Hmm. Well, at least I know how to hang up a phone. Now, speaking of aides, where's that wretched one of my mine? Kyle!"

"Here I am, ma'am. I trust your conversation with the admiral went well? You seem a little troubled."

"Hmm? Oh, that's just a guilty conscience, I'm afraid. You see, it went exactly as I planned."

"Surely that's a good thing, Prime Minister?"

"Yes, you'd think so, wouldn't you? Still, I suppose time will tell. That and the history books. Now, what can you tell me about the treasurer's recent social calendar?"

"Well, ma'am, according to my sources, it appears he's been having lunch quite regularly with the minister for Foreign Affairs. Rumour has it they've become quite close."

"Close? With that cow? Fat chance. Those two are up to something, I can sense it. Hmm. Listen, see if you can dig up an imminent international summit or conference or assembly or something we can pack her off to ASAP, the more remote the better. She's going to have a hard time getting close to anybody posing for photo-ops in a stupid shirt somewhere in the backlots of Bhutan."

****

It was true, night-time Coober Pedy from above did not make for an impressive sight. The airport had been small and somewhat basic. And although perfectly adequate, the hotel room had been spartan—and curiously lacking in windows.

And yet, none of that prepared Fields for the barren desolation or furnace-like heat that hit him the moment he and Peregrine stepped from the frigid, air-conditioned gloom of the Desert Cave Hotel's lobby and out into the sun-blasted glare of the alleged town's alleged main street.

"Regina?"

"Yes, Agent Fields?"

"What the hell happened here?"

There was a pause before her muffled voice replied from within the jacket slung over Peregrine's shoulder. "I'm sorry. What happened where?"

Fields spun in a slow circle, taking in the low, dusty buildings cowering beneath the bleached blue sky, the utter lack of anything green bar the dusty sage of an occasional bedraggled gum tree and the surrounding Mars-scape of barren, rocky hills shimmering off into the distance.

"Here," he repeated. "Coober Pedy. Did they use the place to test nukes or something?"

"I don't believe so. You may be thinking of Maralinga, some 500km or so west of here. Practically next-door, in Australian terms. But no, what you see before you is simply Coober Pedy au naturel. A distinct lack of aesthetics is one of the the unavoidable consequences of building a town in the heart of a desert, I'm afraid. If not for the opals, it wouldn't be here at all. There would be nothing but the rocks and the scrub and the heat and the dust, and of course, the Arabana people native to the area. By all accounts, they find it quite hospitable."

"Seriously?" queried Fields. "Hospitable? This?" Squinting in the ferocious glare, he reached into a pocket for his sunglasses but then remembered he was already wearing them. "They wouldn't happen to be the superheroes we're here to sign up, would they?"

"No, Agent Fields. As I mentioned on the plane last night, our next potential recruit is an inventor local to this area. Her name is Tallulah Spry, however she is more commonly known, at least to the Coober Pedians, as Shed Girl."

"An inventor, huh?" Peregrine elbowed Fields in the ribs. "How good an inventor can she be, if she hasn't invented herself a way out of this place?"

"Oh, Ms Spry is a tech innovator of quite some renown, with particular expertise in the fields of nano-technology and materials science, but widely recognised as brilliant in numerous others. As for leaving Coober Pedy, she does so on occasion, both to present at conferences and also to assist with the design and execution of various research projects around the world, most of which are to investigate and expand upon theories she herself has proposed."

"Right." Fields absorbed this information. "And then she comes back?"

"Yes, Agent Fields. Every time and at the first opportunity, Ms Spry returns to her home town of Coober Pedy, heedless of the many lucrative and prestigious offers of positions she has received from assorted tech firms and institutions around the globe. Institutions including our current mutual employer— she is, in fact, the only potential superhero on our list to have previously been approached for recruitment."

"Whoa" said Peregrine. "So this Tallulah lady has already knocked back the SHAPsters. Said no to the private jets and the bright lights and the big cities, and said yes"—pushing her sunglasses down her nose, she squinted along the dusty street for a moment, before hurriedly pushing them back up again—"to this. She must be some hard-core kind of lady."

Fields couldn't help but agree. And,  given the experience of the last few days suggested the scheduling of their recruitments was based on an ascending order of difficulty—and of danger—that did not bode at all well for their immediate future.

"Right," he said. "So, just to clarify, we're here to recruit a genius inventor who doesn't want to be recruited, and who, for all we know, has all kinds of exciting and painful tech at her disposal to help reinforce the point by discouraging unsuspecting potential recruiters. Probably with extreme prejudice. And, quite possibly, gratuitous squelching and/or slicing."

"Now, now, Agent Fields. While it's true Ms Spry did not respond well to her previous offer of recruitment, the agents involved have quite recovered from the experience. Well, more or less. And it is hoped you and Agent Peregrine will meet with more success."

"Oh, yeah?" said Fields, as a gleaming back BMW X7—presumably their ride—pulled up before them. "Based on what? Have you guys dug up some dirt on Shed Girl? Worked out some new angle we can use to reel her in?"

"Ooh, ooh, I know," said Peregrine. "It's because of the old Peregrine charm, isn't it? The Fields charisma? The undeniable sex appeal and persuasiveness of the dynamic duo from the section known as F? Maybe all of the above?"

There was a delicate pause before Regina replied. "Well, no. Not exactly. It's more just sort of...hoped."

****

Tommy Normous liked a crisis. Loved a deadline. Positively adored a looming catastrophe.

Under pressure—real pressure, the lump of coal up your arse turning into a diamond kind—the blood sang in his veins, colours fizzed and popped, and the racing of his already elevated mental processes ratcheted up into overdrive.

And it would be fair to say, for the past week or two, Tommy had been about as ratcheted as it was possible for a human to get and remain sane.

Possibly even more so.

Tommy was a problem-solver. You didn't get from his origins to where he was now in an industry like his if you weren't. Quite simply, in the movie game there were the haves and the have-nots, and the haves had zero interest in helping out any upstart have-nots who might just have the hutzpah to dream of switching sides—in fact, just the opposite. In their relentless drive to become have-it-alls, most of the smug, complacent and arrogant haves already high up in the game were more than happy to see any hapless have-nots with the misfortune to come their way reduced to have-nothings. Which meant, for a have-not such as Tommy, there was only one way in—to batter the door down.

To be bigger and bolder. Flashier and sexier. To push the envelope and to break the budget. To dare the undoable and to embrace the inevitable anarchy that ensued. To wow the punters, no matter the cost, to give them what they wanted and, if he couldn't manage that, to make the bastards want what he gave them.

And—perhaps most crucially of all—to find the money to do it. To find it, and then convince the ignorant, uncultured scumbags clutching the purse-strings to hand it over. 

Fortunately, like most things, that was something Tommy knew himself to be very good at.

"Yeah, I'm reviewing today's rushes as we speak." Somewhat unusually for a conversation with an investor, this statement happened to be true. Phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder (Tommy didn't do speaker calls—if there was to be any eavesdropping on a set of his, he was damn well going to be the one doing it), hands on the video controls, he gazed up at the array of screens filling an entire wall of his trailer. "Let me tell you, they're sensational. Just fabulous. They're gonna blow your mind." This was also true, although perhaps not in the way the investor might have expected.

"Listen, Davey, it's going great, but...sorry, what? Oh, right. Yeah, it's going great, Johnny, but I'm gonna need at least another half mil. You know how it is. I run a tight ship, but there're always blow-outs, particularly with all the lockdown/evacuation crap the government's going on about. What? Nah, relax, it's not a problem for us. Out in the sticks like we are, we've hardly noticed all the fuss. Besides, we...uh, we got an exemption. Yeah, that's it. Special dispensation from the bigwigs, 'cause they know just huge this movie's gonna be. Seriously, once Wrath of the Cursed Child of the Demon Emperor of the Forgotten Kingdom of Krundlundfson hits the big screen, everyone's gonna be like, 'Lord of the What?' We've got box-office gold on our hands, Jimmy, trust me. Yeah, yeah, I know you're nervous, but honestly, don't sweat it. We're almost done here. Shooting's just about complete. Basically, we've just got the one scene to go. The last scene. The big scene. The finale."

Switching the phone from one ear to the other, Tommy tipped half a bottle of caffeine pills into the lukewarm coffee resting on the control panel, gave the concoction a swirl and drained it one go. Pupils visibly dilating, expression becoming just that little bit more manic, he grinned up at the story board pinned to the wall.

"I can honestly say, it's gonna be like nothing you've ever seen before."