“Octopus?” I ask, checking the door and turning back to Gran.
“Oh my, you really have forgotten,” she says. I nod. “Well, it was back in ‘34. When London Tops was still just London. I was upcycling clothes for the homeless kids at the flood relief shelter. Do you remember that first day we met, Zoe?” If I say no, it’ll probably confuse her. I nod. “We talked for hours, didn’t we!” She smiles. “Thinking up ways we could create a better world. It was too late to do anything about the climate, of course, but we could still figure out a better way to live in our brave new world. We set about designing the perfect home, where people didn’t need money, oil, houses, even doctors, to survive.”
“Is that when you came up with PIE?”
“When we came up with PIE, dear,” says Gran, smiling. “And my boy, too, of course.”
Dad? “You mean, Jack?”
“Yes, of course, my Jack. He discovered the trashed bio e-skin research, developed in the twenties for the robots but never used!”
“Why didn’t they use it?”
“Well, for one, the skin was virtually unbreakable. But, more importantly,” she adds, pinching my arm, “it was self-healing, just like real human skin! Even the electronics inside the bio-material were indestructible. Not like the other devices and robots we used in the twenties.”
“And all those apps, too!” I add. Dad said it cost people a fortune just to contact each other. Everyone all thought whatsnapchatinstatwitface was free, but they kept needing new devices for the updates. “So, with the digital skin, you wouldn’t have had to keep buying new ones?”
“Right. And that’s exactly why the big guns running the world quickly put a stop to the research. Big Con realised that everyone would stop buying all their other devices.”
“And stop making them loads of pre-Surge money, too!”
“Quite. Then, of course, I had my brainwave to invent a single computer that people could wear, which would simultaneously do what all the apps did. That would protect us from the weather and monitor our health, too, all at the same time. Something we could actually live in, outdoors forever, and for free!”
“PIE?” I ask, grinning so wide I feel like my face might split.
“The one and only. No need for buildings. No need for medicine. No need for anything, really. Nothing but our own bodies, nature, and PIE. That was when you and Jack travelled all around the world, to work with the incredible scientists behind the octopus-inspired digital skin.” Gran raises an arm and swooshes her hand through the air like a plane. “From Texas, Pennsylvania, and Stanford to Athens, Beijing, and Tokyo, and last, but not least, down under to Wollongong!” She pats my shoulder. “You developed the formula together and collected all the materials we needed to finally produce PIE. By the time you came home,” she says, giggling and flashing me a wink, “you were together together.”
I smile.
“Good man,” mutters WB2, eyes and nose peeking out from her bed covers like a curious little mouse, “that Jack of yours.”
I nod, smiling back.
“Bright kid,” WB3 adds, nodding to Gran. “Though not quite as quick as my Isaac…”
Gran frowns and gazes back at me. “You and Jack were inseparable.”
“Their idea of a romantic evening,” continues WB3, raised brow, “was a lock-in, chatting about motherboards and games. What was that thing you used to say, Nem Avti?”
“‘Love at first download’,” chuckles WB2, lifting her trembling hands from under the covers to join them in the shape of a heart.
I choke, laughing, and shrug my shoulders. Dad never said how they met. I knew Mum was an engineer too, but he never told me they made PIE together.
“Then,” adds Gran, “they made Monzi!”
TMI, Gran. I hope my brother is all right. How’ll I get them all out of here, and rescue the Pofs too, without his help? And Gran’s brain is at least thirteen years behind. I have to find out what’s going on—fast.
“So, how did we end up here, Gran?—I mean, Nem Avti.”
“Takiwatanga, Zoe. Remember, everything in our own time and space.”
“Yes, of course. Whenever you’re ready.”
“Well, let’s see… Monzi… err… Yes, he was, mmm, having trouble at…” Gran gazes up at the ceiling and sighs.
“You okay?” I ask, taking her hand.
The door suddenly opens, lighting up the room, and Moojag hovers in. “Jack, is that you?” calls Gran, squinting at him.
“Non, c’est moi. Moojag.”
“Have you seen my Isaac?” Posh asks. My brother just huffs. “He’s coming to see me today,” they say, sticking their nose in the air. “We’re going out for lunch. A fancy place, of course.”
Poor Posh thinks her son Isaac is still alive. But Adam’s dad died years ago. And, anyway, I’m pretty sure there aren’t any ‘fun sea places’ round here!
“Sure,” says Moojag, turning to me with a wink. “Now to the Gajoom soldiers, sister Nema. Quick, quick. Vite, vite.”
“What? What Gajoom soldiers!”
“We didn’t catch all the angry Gajooms,” he answers, shaking his head. “Biermont and I spotted one with its three moody little clones, just before you came back down here. He’s been looking for them and printing more antidote strips to reverse their meanie code!”
If we did miss some angry Gajoomstik robots, then our Real World is still in danger. We have to find them quick, and apply the antidote strips, before they multiply even more!
“Are the rock candy robots in trouble?” cries Gran. Waves of her silver-white hair spring about as she jolts upright. “What has that monster done to our Gajoomstiks!”
Three pairs of shining granny eyes fix on me as I explain everything that has happened. I tell the story of how Adam, Izzy, and I met Moojag, then found this place and discovered the Conqips building a Gajoom army to destroy our perfect Real World. About us helping the Aut workers escape, but having to leave all but three Pofs behind.
Moojag drops his jacket to show Gran his wings. “I knew you would reveal them one day, Monzi,” she says, tapping her chest with her fist.
“He discovered he was a Pof, as well as an Aut,” I say, as all three grans nod back knowingly. “We planted the antidote on the Gajoomstiks, but,” I explain, shaking my head, “we must have missed one, and now it’s bounding free around Gajoomdom and self-replicating—”
“Aldon will make war with the Real World,” adds Moojag, “if we don’t stripe the moody Gajoomstiks before he finds them.”
“We’d better get our pre-Surge skates on, then!” exclaims Gran, frowning as she prods us both. “But I never want to hear either of you say the W word ever again.”
Moojag ponders for a moment, gazing down at his feet. Checking for actual skates? Nope, no skates. He looks back up, disappointed.
“Are you well enough, though?” I ask Gran, bowing my head.
“Of course she is,” yells Posh, arms crossed. “Nothing a good meal won’t cure. Not a blue one, though.”
Gran kicks her legs up as Moojag unhinges the bed’s safety lock and lowers the rail. He passes her the sponge cake and lets her take a big bite before pulling her forward. Moojag’s cicada muscles bulge under his sleeves as Gran tries to stand. But she wobbles with her knees giving way, and falls back to perch on the edge of the bed. Leaning against my shoulder, she slaps herself in the face like a frustrated robot. The other grans sigh, shaking their heads.
“Thank you for coming, Jack and Zoe,” whimpers Gran, head hanging down. “Promise you’ll come again.” Her eyelids close as Moojag and I lay her back down on the bed. “We’ll talk tomorrow…” she mutters, “about the good old days—” and then falls asleep the second her head hits the pillow. Never understood how she does it. Literally can’t remember the last time I fell straight to sleep like that. Have I ever?
“Is she alive?” calls WB3, tipping back onto their bed now, too. “Always dropping off, that one.”
WB2 chuckles. “No idea what year it is, poor dear. How could anyone forget 2044—year of the Great Surge.” Well, at least WB2’s only running ten years behind. “Goodnight, dear,” she says, wiggling her fingers at us. She rolls over and a little fart jets out. A lot like one of Izzy’s but much longer, and, luckily, also not smelly.
“Lock door,” mutters WB3, half-asleep. “Don’t want no meanies creeping in.”