Frecklie poked his head inside. “How’s it going?”
“Get the hell out of here,” Dale screamed and Frecklie obediently disappeared; he’d seen Dale’s frustrated temper tantrums before.
An old man with a grease smeared face and dust balls in his hair crawled out from behind the console with a wrench. He nodded hopefully.
Dale gestured. Sure?
His next nod was a little less confident.
She made disgusted sounds and yelled, “Come back in.” Frecklie popped back warily. “Tell them to turn on the breaker now.”
Puppy looked out the window at the three distant figures hanging onto the front of the scoreboard in left center field. They’d spent the last ten minutes playfully swinging like monkeys from one end to the other; the other adults hammering away with their power drills on the upper decks waved back playfully.
“Do it, I said. The garage area breaker’s working.”
Frecklie went outside, hopping up and down with a series of loud whistles. The scoreboard shivered and Grandma smiled.
“It’s still just Grandma,” Puppy snapped.
“I can see that.” Dale gestured moron-fool-twaddle brain. EDIT MAIN SCREEN flickered on her panel. SPORT danced onto the screen.
“Select baseball,” Puppy said helpfully.
“Oh, really?”
Dale’s deft fingers selected the sport, then adjusted the clock. 8:05 flashed on the scoreboard. The DV grown-ups on the scoreboard whooped it up. Ball, strike and outs features flashed, followed by the innings. The most beautiful zeroes Puppy had ever seen. He patted her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me. I’m promised.”
“Sorry.” He counted his fingers. “Will we also have music?”
“If the file isn’t corrupted. It’s been ten years, yes?”
He cleared his throat. “Thirty-three.”
That made Dale angrier. Honey, you better be real good in bed or the smartest person in the world because charm you ain’t got.
“What’s that?” Puppy pointed at a button marked video.
“Video.”
“Yes, I can read. Can we see if it works?”
“It might not be online and that could take down the whole system,” she said, protective of three hours of work, not including using blow torches to break through the rusted doors.
They had no time. Kenuda hadn’t exactly said yes.
Puppy pressed the button.
The scoreboard trembled. Rasping music blared with an underwater muffled sound. One of the frightened adults jumped into the bullpen. As if disgorging something in its throat, the scoreboard gagged and red, white and blue lights streamed over the outfield. The last two DVs leaped.
A wild-eyed Mooshie HG in Yankee pinstripes rushed out waving a bat. “Come and get it, Cubbies.” She clenched her groin and whirled toward a Cubs HG, brandishing a bat.
It’s Albert Cheng, Puppy marveled. This must be from the 2065 World Series.
“You’re getting yours, Lopez,” the Cheng HG growled.
“By who?” Mooshie taunted.
“Me and my little friend.”
The two HGs battled loudly, flying over the outfield, joined by more Yankees and Cubs bat-wielding HGs clashing to the garbled music. Now the HGs fought all over the stadium with bats the size of trees until only Mooshie remained, floating on a cloud-like mound, while Albert waved his bat back and forth, two Gods. Mooshie threw a ball which exploded into a monstrous white cloud.
“Welcome to the 20…”
Everything disappeared except the red, white and blue lights, which slowly faded.
“What happened?” Puppy cried.
Dale shooed him away. “It’s old like you.”
“But the scoreboard’s working.”
“For now.”
“So that might blow?”
“She got it turned on,” Frecklie said from the doorway.
“I know. But we need the HGs.” He was greedy.
“Maybe it was just that corrupted program,” Dale muttered.
“Can you create a different one?”
Maybe, she gestured.
Yes or no, he gestured back.
“Next time don’t touch anything.” Dale pointed a long red fingernail inches from his left eye.
“Next time make sure the work is done right.”
Frecklie pulled away the flailing Dale. “She can do it.”
“Good. DVs don’t quit.”
Dale swung the wrench at Puppy’s head.
“Tell your sweetgums girlfriend we also need the music fixed. And the public address system.” Puppy propped the skeletons in chairs, carefully arranging their wigs. “One last thing. We’re not called the Hawks and Falcons anymore.”
• • • •
MUSTAFA SQUINTED AT the silhouettes by their bed and grabbed a heavy metal ashtray from the nightstand; Jalak screamed. A Holy Warrior disarmed him while another turned on a light. They waited.
Azhar swallowed his heart, quickly dressing and assuring his wife hiding beneath the blanket that nothing was wrong. He followed the Warriors down the steps, nodding confidently to his sons on the top of the landing; Omar sneered as if this had always been a matter of time.
Azhar was still tying his shoes in the back seat because he would not allow himself to be beheaded barefoot when the black car pulled over to the side of the Maktoum Road. He was steered by the elbows into the rear of a small truck where the Imam sat alone like a special delivery package. The Warriors closed the door.
“Azhar, my friend, good to see you.” He indicated a folding chair. Mustafa shook his head, preferring to stand. He would not die on his knees, no matter what he had done. Abdul would be proud of him.
The Imam laughed. “Why the long face?”
“I have served the Caliphate and the Mufti and Allah to my fullest heart,” he said.
“Yes, you have. Why else would you be here?”
Azhar glanced at the stone-faced guards. The Imam angrily motioned them out of the van. Once the door slid closed, he waited until Azhar wobbled into the seat. “An apology. This is all last minute, but the Son requires your help.”
Mustafa hastily composed himself so he wouldn’t look like a sniveling coward or a dim-witted fool, finally managing a brief bow. “Anything.”
“Good.” The Imam handed him a folder and knocked on the door, which quickly opened. The Guards helped him down. “The keys are in the ignition. Everything else is clear. You must leave now.”
Azhar sat behind the wheel, reading until he heard the Imam’s car pull away. He scanned the list of names once more, frowning.
Mustafa ignored all speed limits and safety considerations,
