War on Whimsy (9 page)

“I know,” said Greta. She sat down and Nicola breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this time Greta wasn't going to bother trying to make a point.

Greta stood up again and faced the back of the bus.

“I was just thinking, this really proves that
I
am better qualified to be the leader of—”

“Whoops-a-rosie!” called out Shimlara, as the bus veered off the side of the Blue-5 road, causing Greta to quickly sit down again without finishing her sentence.

Don't worry, Nic, she's never going to be leader of the Space Brigade,
said Shimlara's voice loud and clear in Nicola's head.

Katie nudged Nicola and gave her a wink. Although Nicola and Katie couldn't read each other's minds or speak in each other's heads, they'd been friends for long enough that Nicola had a pretty good idea what Katie was thinking. Her loyalty was as solid as lava stone.

Hey, I know you've known Katie forever but my loyalty is just as solid!
said the voice of Shimlara in Nicola's head.

SHIMLARA! KINDLY VACATE MY BRAIN!
shouted Nicola without moving her lips.

Nicola pulled out a notepad and pen from her backpack. She chewed on the pen as she tried to come up with some excellent questions that would show Greta that she deserved to be the leader.

“Here's the protest!” shouted Tyler. Nicola's notepad flew off her lap and onto the floor of the bus as Shimlara jammed on the brakes.

She looked out the window of the bus and saw a small group of Volcomanians marching along the Blue-5 road, holding placards high above their heads.

At first glance, the Volcomanians could have been mistaken for Earthlings. They were short and tall, thin and fat, fair-haired and brunette. However, as Nicola looked closer, she saw their red, scaly skin and hooded eyes. She shivered slightly. It wasn't their fault their skin had evolved that way, but it had to be said, they weren't the
prettiest
life- form she'd come across on her intergalactic travels. It didn't help that their clothing was so drab. They all seemed to be wearing dung-colored, loose-fitting shirts and pants.

Katie was reading out loud some of the signs they were carrying.

“Stop the bus!” called out Nicola, anxious to take control before Greta did. Shimlara pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the bus engine. Everyone stood up, looking nervous.

“Remember, you're an Earthling camera crew,” said Nicola. “Look confident, aggressive, and sort of nosy. Like real journalists. They just barge their way into any situation. Oh, and make sure you've got your press passes!”

As Nicola said this she checked that she still had her own pass. It was a large gold card hanging on a black cord around her neck. Nicola was grateful to JJ-11 for finding such authentic-looking passes. Wearing it made her almost believe she really was a journalist.

Tyler hoisted a movie camera over his shoulder and Sean picked up the sound equipment. Katie had a beauty case full of makeup, while Nicola had her microphone and notepad. Shimlara jangled the bus keys and Greta officiously tapped her pen against a clipboard.

“I'll do all the talking,” announced Greta crisply.

“Ignore her,” said Sean in Nicola's ear as they all walked up the aisle and off the bus.

Greta didn't hesitate. She walked straight into the crowd of protesters, holding her press pass high, and shouting, “Press! Press!”

Nicola couldn't help but be impressed. Who cared if she was irritating? It was worth it to have her on the Brigade. Congratulating herself on this mature response, Nicola followed close behind Greta, holding up her press card in the same way.

One of the Volcomanians dropped his PEACE, NOT WAR sign by his side and stuck his face close to Nicola's. She tried not to flinch when she saw his scaly, crocodile skin up close. “You're not Volcomanians. Where are you from?” he growled.

“We're from Earth,” stammered Nicola. She'd hoped to sound like a confident journalist but instead her voice came out like a frightened five-year-old.

She cleared her throat.

“We're an Earthling news crew,” she said firmly. “We're here to interview you about the War on Whimsy. Are you prepared to answer a few questions?”

Now she sounded pleasingly aggressive. The Volcomanian actually looked nervous.

“On camera? Me? On TV?” he said and bit his lip. “Oh, I don't know. I might say the wrong things. You'd be better talking to my wife. She always has a lot to say.” He grabbed for the sleeve of a woman marching next to him. “Bertha! This is a journalist from Earth! She wants to interview you!”

His wife, who had what looked like peace symbols painted on her red, scaly cheeks and was shaking an instrument that looked like a tamborine, was shouting at the top of her lungs, “
Peace,
not
war
,
hear
me
roar
!” She turned around and saw Nicola and the rest of the Space Brigade.

“A journalist from Earth! That funny little planet! But don't you think you're the only planet in the galaxy?”

“We wouldn't be here if we thought that, would we?” said Sean.

“But goodness me, you're a very
young
news crew,” said Bertha. “I've got children the same age as you. Shouldn't you all be in school?”

“We start our professional lives very early on Earth,” said Nicola. “Now, do you want to be interviewed or not? Because I can always ask someone else.”

“Oh, of course I would! I want to have my say! Roll the cameras! Let the universe hear how ashamed I am of my planet!”

“Be careful what you say on air, darling,” said her husband.

“I've got to have my say, Bert!” said Bertha passionately.

“Okay, I want you over here.” Greta took Bertha by the arm. “And I want the rest of the protesters in a sort of semicircle behind you waving their signs.”

While everyone followed Greta's instructions, Katie came over to Nicola with her beauty case. She pursed her lips professionally as she brushed blush onto Nicola's cheeks and eye shadow onto her eyelids.

“We've got to really
define
your features for television,” said Katie.

“Ummm, don't forget I'm not
really
appearing on television,” said Nicola quietly, as Katie agonized over the right choice of lipstick.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” said Katie. It seemed like everyone was becoming caught up with their fake identities. Sean and Tyler were arguing over the best place to set up the camera equipment, while Greta was still marching around giving orders. Only Shimlara was standing still, watching the proceedings while she chewed furiously on her fingernails.

Finally, after Katie had wound Nicola's unruly hair into a bun at the back of her neck, she pronounced her ready.

“Here are your interview questions,” said Greta, handing over a sheet of paper. “Use exactly the same wording I've given you. Don't say anything that isn't on the script. All you need to do is hold the microphone in front of Bertha and nod.”

I'm not just your puppet, Greta,
thought Nicola as she took the piece of paper.

She read the first question:

Nicola nearly choked. It sounded like an essay question. There was no way she was going to use these questions.

“Sure thing,” she said to Greta.

She took a firm hold of her microphone and stood next to Bertha, who had her hands clasped in front of her and was whistling a mournful tune.

“Sorry,” she said when she saw Nicola. “I always whistle sad songs when I'm nervous. It's a strange habit. You won't ask me any really
difficult
questions, will you, or try and make me look stupid?”

“Definitely not,” said Nicola warmly. Knowing that Bertha was nervous filled Nicola with confidence.

“Action!” ordered Greta, in a tone of voice that made you wonder if she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Nicola lifted her microphone. She had decided to use her mom's maiden name for her fake identity.

“I'm Diane Dennett, reporting live from the Planet of Volcomania.”

“With me today, is Bertha . . .”
Frizzle! Forgot to ask her last name!
“Ah, Bertha is taking part in a protest against the War on Whimsy. Tell me, Bertha, why are you so strongly opposed to this war?”

Nicola tried not to look at Sean (he was making elaborately stupid faces at her) and held her microphone close to Bertha's mouth.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Greta furiously jabbing her finger at the list of questions in Nicola's hand.

“Because it's an outrage!” said Bertha.

There was an awkward pause.

“Ummm, why is it an outrage?” asked Nicola, taking the microphone back.

But she never got to hear Bertha's answer because at that moment they were both knocked off their feet by a torrent of water.

Was it a flood? Had a river burst its banks?

Nicola went flying across the street on her stomach, propelled by an incredibly powerful surge of water. It was like she'd suddenly gone face-first down a very fast waterslide.

Gasping for breath, she sat up and looked down at her drenched clothes. Remarkably, she was still holding on to her microphone. Not one of the protesters was still standing. They were lying all over the road like flies knocked out by insecticide. Most of them had lost their placards. Some were crying.

“What happened?” she said to a young Volcomanian man lying close to her.

He sat up, dried his face on his sleeve, and pointed at the far side of the road. “Police,” he said.

Nicola looked where he was pointing and saw a large group of Volcomanian women dressed in green uniforms. Each of them was holding the nozzle of an enormous black hose. The hoses looked like creepy serpent creatures.

“They turned those hoses on us?” said Nicola.

“Sure did,” said the Volcomanian man grimly. “And now they'll arrest us.”

“This is an
outrage
!” cried someone. Nicola looked up to see her interview subject, Bertha, climbing unsteadily to her feet and pushing her bedraggled hair out of her eyes.

“This was a legal protest against an illegal war!” she shouted.

“Oh dear,” muttered the Volcomanian man.

“All protests against the war are now deemed illegal by order of Mrs. Mania!” boomed one of the policewomen. “Sit back down now, citizen!”

Bertha remained standing. “It was a peaceful protest!” she protested. “We weren't hurting anyone! We just wanted our voices to be heard!”

“
Citizen!
You must sit down now!”

“I will stand proud for my convictions,” cried Bertha.

“Here we go,” muttered the Volcomanian man.

All the policewomen simultaneously turned their hoses on Bertha, hitting her directly in the stomach with a gigantic stream of water. She went flying like a rag doll and landed about a hundred feet away with a horrible wet thump.

Nicola closed her eyes.
What a cruel planet!

“Citizens! Do not move!” boomed one of the policewomen. “You will be arrested shortly and escorted to the Protester Removal Van. Resistance of any kind will not be tolerated!”

Nobody moved.

Nicola craned her neck, looking around for the rest of the Space Brigade. Gradually she picked them all out. Everyone seemed okay, although they all looked shaken and drenched.

Would they be arrested, too? They wouldn't be much help to Shimlara's family if they were stuck in some jail.

What would a real journalist do if she found herself in this situation?

Nicola took a deep breath. A real journalist would report on the story.

She stood up.

“Are you out of your mind?” said the Volcomanian man.

Nicola could see both Katie and Shimlara making frantic “
Sit down!
” gestures at her. She ignored them.

“
Citizen! Are you a slow learner?
” boomed the policewoman.

“I am not a citizen!” shouted Nicola, holding up her wet fake press card. “I am an Earthling journalist! My crew and I are here to report on the War on Whimsy.” She pointed at her friends. “This is the Space—I mean, this is Space News from Channel, ah, Nine!” The rest of the Space Brigade stood up warily, trying hard to look dignified in their dripping tropical clothes. Together with Nicola, they picked their way through the protesters and puddles of water toward the policewomen. Nicola kept her eyes fixed on the giant hoses. She could see the policewomen were confused. They were talking nervously to one another.

She heard one policewoman say, “Let's just hose them down!”

Another one said, “But it's true Mrs. Mania doesn't like upsetting journalists from other planets.”

“They're only
Earthling
journalists.”

Greta spoke up. “I am the Space News producer. Obviously we only interview people in senior positions. Is there anyone qualified to appear on camera?” She gave a snooty sniff. “Or are you all . . . juniors?”

That got the policewomen bristling. Suddenly they were all arguing with one another over who should be interviewed.