Alan Foster - Exceptions to Reality

“This may sound funny, but have you seen a five-foot-tall otter come this way?”

“Nothing funny about it,” the gray-green alien replied in an incongruously high-pitched voice. It jerked a thumb down the hall. “Matter of fact, I just saw two of ’em.”

“Two?” Jon-Tom’s confusion was sincere. Then realization dawned, and he broke into a desperate sprint. “Mudge!”

He found his friend in the third room he tried: an empty office. Bursting in, he and Stromagg discovered Mudge and the otter other in a position that had nothing to do with passing along the finer points of advanced amateur costuming. Jon-Tom’s outrage was palpable.

“Mudge!”

Rising from the couch, his friend looked back over his shoulder, not in the least at a loss.

“’Ello, mate.” He indicated the figure beneath him. “This ’ere is Althea. She’s psychic. We been discussin’ matters of the moment, you might say.”

Stark naked except for otter mask and furry feet, the girl struggled to cover herself as best she could. Though surprised by the unexpected intrusion, she did not appear particularly distressed. Rather the contrary. Ignoring her, an angry Jon-Tom confronted his companion.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Aren’t matters complicated enough as it is?”

Hopping off the long couch and into his short pants, the otter proceeded to defend himself. “Back off, mate. Me and Althea ’ere weren’t ’avin’ no problems. It were all perfectly consentable, it were.”

“That’s right.” Rising in all her admirable suppleness, she reached out with one hand to grab hold of Mudge’s right ear. “And now that I’ve fulfilled my half of the bargain, it’s time to see how your outfit is put together, like you promised.” She pulled hard.

Yelping, Mudge twisted around as his ear was yanked. “Owch! ’Ave a care there, darlin’. I need that.”

Looking puzzled, the girl’s gaze descended. Grabbing a fistful of fur in the otter’s nether regions, she pulled again. Once more the otter let out a hurt bark. A look of confusion crossed her countenance, to be replaced by one of revelation, followed by one of shock. As this panoply of expression transformed her lovely face, Jon-Tom was half carrying Mudge, who was engaged in trying to buckle the belt of his shorts, toward the doorway where Stromagg kept tipsy watch.

“Omigod!” the girl suddenly screamed, one hand rising to her mouth, “it’s not a special effect!”

Wearing a hurt look as he was hauled out the door, an offended Mudge called back, “I resent that, luv!”

Hearing the girl’s screams, a group of heavily armed attendees had begun to gather at the far end of the hallway. While any band of professionals from Lynchbany would have made short work of the lot, several of the costumed cluster did appear to be more than a little competent at arms. Certainly there was nothing slipshod or fragile about the assortment of swords and axes they carried.

“This way!” With the increasingly outraged costumers following, Jon-Tom led his friends around the corner of the hallway that encircled the auditorium, searching for an exit that led back out onto the rain-washed side street.

“Here, you three.” Up ahead, a hotel security guard in a freshly pressed suit and tie had materialized to block their path. “What’s this I hear about you freaks causing trouble wi—” His slightly pompous accusation was cut off in midsentence as Stromagg stiff-armed him into the nearest wall, cracking plaster directly beside a painting of a skinny lord seated astride a decidedly astringent thoroughbred.

Bursting back out into the street, Jon-Tom led the way back toward the Underground station. It was darker than ever outside, but at least the rain had let up. An oncoming car had to screech to a halt to avoid slamming into the fleeing trio.

Within the vehicle, a well-dressed middle-aged couple stared as the tall, medievally clad spellsinger; giant otter in feathered cap, vest, and short pants; and rapidly sobering, heavily armored grizzly bear thundered past. They were followed soon after by an enraged mob of weapon-waving fans dressed as everything from a giant spider to a female Mr. Spock missing one ear. Peering through the windshield in the wake of this singular procession, the husband slowly shook his head before commenting knowingly to his equally bewildered spouse. Pressing gently on the accelerator, he urged the car forward.

“I’m telling you, dear. There’s no question about it. The city gets worse every year.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Mudge began to make insulting faces at their pursuers. He would have dropped his pants except that Jon-Tom threatened to brain him with the flat of his own sword. As usual, the otter reflected, the often dour spellsinger simply did not know how to have fun.

“There!” Jon-Tom pointed in the direction of the softly glowing split circle. A sphere of black mist was just visible plunging down the portal.

Racing past a brace of startled subway travelers, he and Stromagg hurtled down the stairs in pursuit of the ebony globe. Mudge chose to slide gleefully down the central banister, looking back up the stairwell to flash obscene gestures in the direction of their pursuers. The outraged howl these sparked were unarguable proof that his intricate scatological gesticulations transcended species.

Alongside the automatic gates that led to the boarding platform, a startled security officer looked up in the direction of the approaching commotion.

“See here, you lot need to slow down and—”

Accelerating to pass Jon-Tom, Stromagg shoved the officer aside. Grabbing one in each paw, he ripped two of the barriers out of the floor and flung them ceiling-ward. From one, old-style subway tokens rained down on the fleeing trio.

Lying off to one side amid the rubble, cap and uniform askew, the unlucky guard looked up dazedly. “Of course, if it’s an emergency…”

Slowing as they reached the subway platform, a panting Jon-Tom looked back to see that pursuit had slowed as the angry fans were slowed by the debris. Meanwhile Mudge was fairly dancing with belligerence.

“Pulin’ ’umans! Shrew-pricked candy lobbers!” He had his short sword out and was stabbing repeatedly at empty air. “I’ll skewer the bleedin’ lot o’ them!”

“You aren’t going to skewer anyone.” Climbing down off the platform onto the tunnel track, Jon-Tom started north, in the direction taken by the floating ball of black mist-magic. His companions followed. Unlimbering his duar as they plunged into the feebly illuminated tunnel, he began to play softly. The steadily intensifying glow from the instrument served to show the way.

Sword rescabbarded, hands jammed in pockets, Mudge kicked angrily at the occasional rock or empty soda can underfoot. “’Tis an unaccommodatin’ world yours is, mate. Unfriendly an’ worse—no sense o’ fellowship.” Then he remembered the other otter, and a small smile played across his mouth.

As if recalling a fond and distant thought, Stromagg peered into the darkness ahead. “Beer?”

A light appeared, growing brighter as it came toward them. A light, and a roaring they had heard once before. Startled, Jon-Tom began to backtrack. Literally.

“Oh shit.”

Mudge made a face. “More incomprehensible spellsinger lyrics?”

“Run!” Turning, Jon-Tom broke into a desperate sprint. How far up the tunnel had they come? How far was it back to the passenger platform?

As the light of the oncoming train bore down on them, he fumbled with the duar and with memories of train-related songs. There was the theme from the film Trainspotting —no, that probably wouldn’t work. He could not remember the words to “A Train a-Comin’.” Heavy metal, punk, ska, even industrial had little use for trains.