Akiko in the Castle of Alia Rellapor Page 2

  “INSIDE THE STORAGE COMPARTMENT, SIR,” Gax replied matter-of-factly. “BEHIND HIS HEAD. THERE SHOULD BE ENOUGH SPACE TO HOLD ALL OF US.”

  “But—” Spuckler began.

  “That’s a good idea, Gax,” I interrupted, looking up to see that Poog was also smiling his approval.

  “It’s an excellent idea, Gax!” Mr. Beeba cried, clapping his big hands together. “It’s an inspired strategic move of the highest order. Why, you should tell Spuckler to shut up more often, I say!”

  Spuckler glared at Mr. Beeba, growling like an angry dog. He lowered the wire cutters, though, and turned to Gax with a humble expression on his face.

  “All right, Gax. We’ll give it a try.”

  Spuckler and Gax spent the next half hour or so reprogramming the Torg. The two of them mumbled about this circuit and that memory bank, occasionally arguing but always sounding like old friends. I may have been imagining things, but I’d swear Spuckler sounded more respectful now when he spoke to Gax.

  Mr. Beeba, Poog, and I kept a lookout from behind a boulder at the edge of the path. Luckily all the rest of the Torgs were down near the base of the castle, marching back and forth like little windup soldiers. I kept looking at Alia’s castle with all its towers and turrets and Gothic arches. I wondered what it would be like to actually get inside that place. Where was Prince Froptoppit being held? I pictured him in a dark cell, with nothing but bread and water to eat all day.

  “Don’t worry, Prince Froptoppit,” I said to myself. “We’re almost there.”

  “All right, gang!” Spuckler called out from his perch on top of the Torg. “We’re ready to roll!”

  “This is going to be cool,” I said as I climbed up one of the Torg’s legs. “I’ve never been inside a robot before!”

  “What’s happened to you, Akiko?” Mr. Beeba asked disapprovingly. “You used to be such a sensible girl!”

  Spuckler opened the large storage compartment on top of the Torg’s body and we all climbed in. I immediately noticed a strong unpleasant smell, like burned rubber or diesel fuel. There were strange pieces of equipment crowded inside, but we managed to find enough space for all of us. Gax was near the front. Spuckler had connected a thick cable from Gax’s body to the back of the Torg’s head. I figured they’d rigged it so that Gax could program thoughts right into the Torg’s robotic brain. Mr. Beeba, Poog, and I huddled near the back of the compartment, sandwiched between two large metal crates. When we had gotten as comfortable as possible, Spuckler pulled the hatch down so that just a tiny sliver of light remained in the front.

  “All right, Gax,” Spuckler said. “Do your stuff!”

  Gax clicked and whirred a bit and suddenly the Torg’s engine roared to life. We heard a deep buzzing-humming noise, and the sound of gears turning just beyond the walls of our compartment.

  GREEEEEEEEEE!

  There was a high-pitched screech and the Torg lurched forward, then immediately came to an abrupt halt. We were all flung from the back of the compartment to the front, and I felt my face pressing into Spuckler’s leathery coat.

  “SORRY, EVERYONE,” Gax squeaked. “MAKING THIS TORG WALK IS GOING TO REQUIRE A BIT OF PRACTICE.”

  “Take your time, Gax,” I said, trying to sound as encouraging as I could. “I know you’ll get the hang of it soon.”

  We all held our breath as Gax prepared to make the Torg move a second step.

  GREEEEEEEEEE!

  The Torg lurched forward again, this time taking three quick steps like a tiptoeing ballerina. We all bounced up and down, banging our heads on the underside of the hatch and bruising our bottoms on the cold metal floor.

  “Come on, Gax,” Spuckler said, moving his mouth right up next to Gax’s head like a boxing coach in the ring. “Think Torg.”

  “I’M TRYING, SIR,” Gax replied. “I’M JUST NOT USED TO THIS CONCEPT OF HAVING LEGS.”

  Chapter 5

  After a few more false starts, Gax finally began to move the Torg forward step by step at a fairly steady pace. I imagine the giant robot must have looked like a one-year-old who’d just learned to walk. Thankfully I don’t think any other robots saw us at this point. Ten or fifteen minutes later Gax had the Torg walking around like an old pro.

  Gax instructed the Torg to walk down to the castle and find an entrance. I waited and watched as we caught glimpses of scenery through the nearly closed storage hatch. I’d see a sliver of the morning sky or a slice of the castle itself, growing ever larger as we approached it. Eventually I saw other Torgs, stalking back and forth among the snow-covered boulders at the base of the castle. One of them crossed our path just a few feet in front of us, and we very nearly smashed right into it.

  “SORRY ABOUT THAT,” Gax said. “A RATHER CLOSE CALL, WASN’T IT?”

  Mr. Beeba made a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a moan.

  Finally we arrived at the front entrance of the castle. It was an enormous iron gate held in place by an ornate stone archway, with two flickering torches on either side. At the very top, in the exact center of the arch, a tiny robotic camera perched on the end of a short mechanical arm. It clicked and buzzed, apparently focusing intently on us.

  “It’s a surveillance robot,” Spuckler explained. “It decides who gets to come in and who doesn’t. With any luck the li’l feller’s been programmed to ’open sesame’ for any Torg that comes along.”

  With any luck. Well, it just wasn’t our day.

  GRICKLE-SPRICKLE-BOK-BOK!

  The little camera vibrated, producing a series of strange mechanical noises. It sounded like a hyperactive pinball machine.

  MIRKLE-BIRKLE-CHEEK-CHEEK-CHEEK!

  “What’s going on?” I asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

  “HE’S SCOLDING ME,” Gax explained. “HE SAYS I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE BACK HERE HALF AN HOUR AGO.”

  “Quick!” Spuckler whispered. “Somebody come up with a good excuse!”

  There was a short pause as we all struggled to think of something.

  “I’ve got it!” Mr. Beeba said excitedly. “Tell him you were admiring the morning sunlight . . . as it cascaded upon the newly fallen snow . . . and you were so enchanted by it that you lost all track of time!”

  “Robots are machines, you idiot!” Spuckler snapped. “They don’t do stuff like that!”

  “Er . . . enjoying the fresh mountain air, perhaps?”

  Spuckler smacked Mr. Beeba soundly on the forehead, making a noise like a thumped pumpkin.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said. “What if you say your navigation circuits blew out and you had trouble finding your way back to the castle?”

  There was a moment of silence as Spuckler, Mr. Beeba, and Gax all turned to me with stunned expressions. Even Poog looked impressed, as if he hadn’t expected this out of me.

  “Now that,” Spuckler said with an upraised finger, “is an excuse.”

  “Well done, Akiko,” Mr. Beeba said, grinning enviously.

  “Go on, Gax,” Spuckler said. “Tell it to the robot, exactly like Akiko said.”

  Gax shivered a bit, and a moment later noises began to come out of the Torg’s head.

  NIRKLE-GIRKLE-DOK-DOK. DIRKLE-DIRKLE-GWEEEEK!

  There was a long pause. The camera robot stayed motionless, its lens still pointed at us. It moved slowly back and forth, then made a brief mechanical noise.

  KIRKLE-POTCH!

  “Well?” Mr. Beeba asked.

  “HE SAYS IT’S THE WORST EXCUSE HE’S EVER HEARD,” Gax translated.

  Nevertheless, there was a loud rumbling-groaning noise, followed by a piercing rusty screech, and the iron gate slowly began to rise. A moment later the passageway was wide open, and Gax was able to make the Torg march inconspicuously into the castle.

  Spuckler pushed the hatch open a bit farther so we could get a better look at our surroundings. We were in the middle of a gigantic hallway with a smooth marble floor. Orange-flamed torches lined the walls on both sides, providing just enough
light to see from one end of the hallway to the other. Every square inch of the place seemed to be covered with strange carvings and decorations, and I found myself wondering if it was the prettiest place I’d ever been in or just the creepiest.

  Gax kept the Torg moving one step at a time, each motion producing a soft echo.

  “Where we goin’, Gax?” Spuckler asked.

  “I HAVEN’T THE FAINTEST IDEA, SIR,” Gax replied. “I ASSUME WE HAVE TO KEEP MOVING, THOUGH, IF WE ARE TO AVOID AROUSING SUSPICION.”

  “Good thinking, Gax,” said Mr. Beeba. “Still, we need to find some means of discerning the Prince’s whereabouts. In a castle this size, it could take us months to search the place!”

  Months? I didn’t want to stay in that castle more than a few minutes! We’d have to find a better way.

  Suddenly there was a warbly, gurgling sound: Poog was talking. It had been a while since I’d heard his alien language, so it caught me a bit off guard. We all turned and looked at Poog. He had a serious look on his face. The orange flames of the torches shimmered in his big black eyes. He finished what he had to say, shut his mouth, and blinked once or twice.

  “Poog says we’ve got to keep our eyes open,” Mr. Beeba translated. “If we look carefully enough, we’ll be able to see some sort of clue as to where the Prince is being held.”

  “Why doesn’t he just tell us where he’s bein’ held,” Spuckler grumbled, “’stead of being Mr. Mysterious all the time?”

  “Hush, Spuckler,” Mr. Beeba scolded. “It is not for us to decide what Poog will or will not tell us!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Spuckler muttered, sounding as though he’d heard Mr. Beeba say this many times before.

  So Gax kept the Torg going, and we all peered out of our dark little compartment into the dim orange light, hoping to see something cluelike. Once, another Torg came into view, heading to some other part of the castle. It made a short beeping sound as it passed, one that Gax was careful to repeat. I figured that was the way Torgs greeted one another, like people back in Middleton saying “Hi” as they passed on the street.

  “This is crazy,” Spuckler said after a few minutes. “We’re not gonna get anywhere wanderin’ around like this. I say we climb down an’ check the place out on foot.”

  “Absolutely not,” Mr. Beeba replied sternly. “This Torg is the only thing keeping us from being discovered!”

  “Yeah,” Spuckler protested. “But it’s so boring!”

  Suddenly I saw a tiny robot pass in front of us. It was about three feet tall and clattered across the floor like a vacuum cleaner with legs. It made three high-pitched beeps and continued on its way. I looked down and saw that it was carrying a tray in one of its mechanical hands. On the tray was . . . well, I know it sounds crazy, but I’d swear it looked exactly like milk and cookies!

  Chapter 6

  “Gax,” I said excitedly. “Follow that robot!”

  “BUT, MA’AM—” Gax began.

  “Just follow it!” I said again. “I’ll bet anything that little guy’s heading straight to the Prince!”

  “Do what she says, Gax,” Spuckler said, not sounding entirely sure why he was saying it. “’Kiko’s got her mind made up on this one.”

  So Gax made the Torg stop, pivot, and follow the miniature robot down a corridor that branched off from the main hallway. Gax left twenty-five or thirty feet between the two robots, evidently trying not to look too suspicious.

  The corridor was darker and had fewer decorations on its walls than the grand hallway we’d just come from. The ceiling was also pretty low, leaving just enough space for the Torg to get through. It occurred to me that we were making rather a lot of noise walking down the hallway with our robot’s enormous metal feet. Could the miniature robot hear us?

  GREEEEEET!

  As if it had heard my question, the little robot abruptly came to a stop and spun its head around to confront us. I couldn’t tell if it looked angry or not (How could I? It didn’t have any eyebrows!), but it

  didn’t seem particularly happy to see us either.

  “Keep goin’, Gax!” Spuckler whispered. “He’ll get suspicious if we stop!”

  Gax obediently made the Torg walk right by the little robot as if we were on our way somewhere. The other robot’s head slowly swiveled as we passed, its mechanical eyes locked on us.

  “But, Spuckler,” I whispered, “if we keep going like this, we’re going to lose the trail!”

  “Don’t worry, ’Kiko. I got a plan.”

  Mr. Beeba whimpered quietly like a wounded dog. I think he tended to get really nervous whenever Spuckler had a plan.

  Gax kept the Torg walking until we were forty-five or fifty feet ahead of the little robot. Then Spuckler spoke again.

  “All right, Gax,” he said, “stop here and act like you’re workin’ on the walls.”

  “WORKING ON THE WALLS, SIR?” Gax asked, sounding thoroughly mystified.

  “Pretend you’re waterproofin’, or fixin’ the caulk or something.”

  “THERE IS NO CAULK, SIR . . . ,” said Gax.

  Spuckler growled.

  “. . . BUT I’LL SEE WHAT I CAN DO,” Gax added hastily.

  With that he raised one of the Torg’s arms and began urgently poking at a spot where the wall met the ceiling.

  It was eerily quiet as Spuckler, Mr. Beeba, Poog, Gax, and I huddled together in the dark compartment, waiting to find out what would happen next. Mr. Beeba pulled a handkerchief from under his belt and began patting his damp forehead.

  Finally we heard the light skittering sound of the little robot’s feet on the stone floor as it approached us from behind. Gax made several of the Torg’s arms shoot out to fiddle even more vigorously with various areas of the wall, producing an impressive variety of noises. It sounded like a whole team of construction workers using everything from jackhammers to power drills. I don’t know whether Gax really had any idea what he was supposed to be doing, but he was definitely making the Torg look busy.

  NIRKLE-NIRKLE GLEEP-GLEEP!

  The little robot passed us and continued down the corridor, its tray of milk and cookies held proudly before it in two mechanical fists.

  “Wh-what did he say?” Mr. Beeba asked, mopping his forehead.

  “HE TOLD ME I MISSED A SPOT.”

  Chapter 7

  Gax continued to follow the little robot, stopping periodically to “work” a bit on the walls. Eventually we came to a point where the corridor opened into a large rectangular room with one smallish square door at the far end. Two large lizardy-looking animals with shiny gray-green skin and pointy yellow teeth were guarding the door, one chained at either side. When the robot arrived, they jumped up and yanked against their chains, growling and snapping at the air like rabid pit bulls.

  “Vungers,” Spuckler whispered to me. “They’re snow lizards. Pretty fierce little critters. They could eat a guy like Beebs for breakfast an’ still have room for pancakes.”

  Mr. Beeba shot Spuckler an annoyed glance and raised his head for a better view.

  TWEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

  The little robot emitted a piercing whistle so high-pitched I could barely hear it. My skin broke out in goose pimples, and a weird shiver ran up and down my spine. The two lizards suddenly lay down with their jaws on the floor, closed their beady black eyes, and fell fast asleep.

  The little robot inserted a small key into a keyhole on the right-hand side of the door and gave it series of turns.

  KAK! P’CHIK! KREEEEEEE . . .

  The robot opened the door, closing it quickly behind itself after entering the room. A few seconds passed before the door opened again and the robot reemerged, this time without the tray of food.

  “Gax!” Spuckler growled. “Work, buddy, work!”

  Gax quickly resumed his fixing-the-walls routine, turning the entire Torg toward the wall as if it had just discovered a particularly troublesome spot. The little robot beeped loudly as it passed and clattered back down the hallway
, eyeing us suspiciously as it disappeared from view.

  “The Prince is in that room!” I said, pushing the hatch up with both hands and rising to my feet. “I know it!”

  “I hope you’re right, Akiko,” Mr. Beeba said, tucking his handkerchief back under his belt. “It would make this whole rescuing business ever so much easier.”

  Spuckler disconnected the cable linking Gax to the head of the Torg, then stopped, seeming to think better of it.

  “You better stay here with th’ Torg, ol’ buddy,” he explained as he reconnected the thick metallic cord. “We might need t’ make a speedy getaway or somethin’, ya know what I mean?”

  “CERTAINLY, SIR,” Gax answered, sounding as if he feared our getaway would be anything but speedy.

  “Atta boy,” said Spuckler.

  I helped Mr. Beeba lower himself to the floor, then jumped down to join him. Spuckler and Poog followed, and we all tiptoed carefully across the room, trying our best not to awaken the snoozing Vungers. A troubled silence fell over us as we stared at the solid-looking door. Spuckler tried turning the knob. It wouldn’t budge.

  “We could try picking the lock,” I suggested, even though I didn’t know the first thing about lock picking. I’d seen my uncle Koji do it once back in Middleton, but I had no idea how he did it.

  “Pickin’ locks is for sissies,” said Spuckler as he strutted back to the Torg and began climbing up to the storage compartment. “I got a better idea.”

  Mr. Beeba gave me a nervous glance. He looked as if he might need his handkerchief again soon.

  “Spuckler!” I called as loudly as I could without waking the Vungers. “What, um, sort of idea do you have in mind?”

  “You’ll see!” he replied cheerfully.

  Every once in a while he’d pop up out of the Torg’s head to examine some tool in the torchlight, then toss it back in and dive down for another look.

  “That ain’t it. . . . Naw, this ain’t it neither. . . .”