The Falcon's Feather

by Trudi Trueit

  “I’m s-sorry,” sputtered Cruz. “I didn’t mean to—”

  She put a hand to her bandanna. “Did you talk to it?”

  Cruz was trying to get slime out of his nose. “Uh…no…I don’t think so.”

  “You must have said something.”

  “Well, I might have…”

  “Stay here.” She grabbed the tray and raced back into the labyrinth of cubicles, worn-out sneakers smacking the tile floor.

  Cruz gave Emmett a horrified look. “I didn’t know it would do that.”

  “How could you?” Emmett was reaching around one of the dividers.

  “Be careful.” Cruz wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Who knows what’s lurking—”

  “Argggh!” shrieked Emmett, beginning to shake violently.

  “Argggh!” echoed Cruz, horrified at seeing his friend’s eyes roll back. Cruz latched on to Emmett’s waist to drag him from the clutches of whatever freakish lab experiment had him in a death grip. “I’ve got you,” cried Cruz. “I won’t let go!”

  “Good, because…” Emmett suddenly stopped thrashing. He whipped his arm back to reveal what was attached to it: a roll of paper towels. “I gotcha, too.”

  “Not one bit funny,” scolded Cruz, though he had to admit it was a tiny bit funny. He ripped off a couple of sheets from the roll to clean his face. “What kind of place is this anyway?”

  “I’m so glad you asked!” called Fanchon, her strong voice arriving a few seconds ahead of her. “This is a place of innovation. Of determination. Of transformation. Of anticipation. This is a place for those who dare to dream new dreams.” She patted Emmett’s back. “Like this bright explorer here.”

  Cruz vigorously nodded. He admired Emmett, not only for his intelligence but for his ability to see the potential in even the simplest things, things most people took for granted, like a pair of glasses or a piece of fabric.

  Fanchon undid the knot of her cheetah head scarf and a wave of wild, dark caramel-colored curls sprung from the fabric. The tips looked as if they had been dipped in pink lemonade. “Cruz, it looks like I’m the one that owes you an apology.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Your…interaction…confirmed my suspicion that my sensotivia extract was, perhaps, a little too sensitive.”

  “So, I didn’t ruin—”

  “The samples are fine.” She retied her scarf. “I talked to them and they calmed right down.”

  Cruz was dying to ask what exactly you say to soothe a tray of angry orange slime, but thought better of it.

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you”—Fanchon leaned in, as if to tell him a secret, though the trio seemed to be alone—“I am a great admirer of your mother.”

  “My…mom?” Cruz was taken aback.

  “I mean, I didn’t know her, but I’ve read all of her papers. She was an incredible role model for girls like me who love science. In fact, it was her work that inspired something I’m developing right now…” She gave an awkward smile. “But enough about me. I know why you’re here. Hold on. It’s ready.” Sliding by Emmett, she went around a corner.

  Cruz wasn’t sure what to expect. All their survival instructor had told him was that the tech lab chief had designed a device that could convert human language to cetacean-speak and vice versa. Cruz hoped it wasn’t anything that required him to mimic the animals. The only foreign language Cruz knew was Spanish, and he doubted that had much in common with the squeaks, squeals, and groans the large marine mammals used to communicate.

  Fanchon was back, holding a shiny black dive helmet and a matching candy-bar-size controller. “I present to you the Uck.” Cruz twisted his mouth. “The yuck?”

  “U-C-C. It stands for Universal Cetacean Communicator. It works like my standard rebreathing dive helmet; however, when you come within twenty feet or so of a cetacean, the onboard computer kicks in. It identifies the species and selects the corresponding vocabulary program. Once it has, you’ll see a green light flash above your left eye. That’s the signal that the translator is ready and you may proceed.”

  “Then I just talk inside the helmet?”

  “Yes. Speak in your normal voice, but use simple words and short phrases, if you can. It’ll help the translator work faster and more efficiently. It takes about ten seconds for the computer to record your phrase, translate it, and broadcast it to the animal. Since most cetaceans have excellent hearing, the noise it produces will be low and won’t interfere with your normal hearing. Likewise, when the whale sings, the UCC will record it and translate what it can for you. While that’s happening, you’ll see a blue light. For the translation, it’s my voice you’ll hear in your helmet.”

  Maybe talking to the whales wasn’t going to be as difficult or complicated as he’d thought.

  “One other thing,” added Fanchon. “Don’t expect it to say, ‘Hi, Cruz, how are you?’ That’s not how it works. You’ll likely get a set of descriptive words to convey what the animal is feeling or thinking. You may have to do a little guesswork to figure it out. The best advice I can give you is to go with your gut.”

  “Okay.” So much for easy and uncomplicated.

  “What’s the controller for?” asked Emmett.

  “It allows you to switch between human and cetacean communication. It clips on your diver’s belt. You’ll always be able to hear your team, Cruz, but in UCC mode, you won’t be able to speak to them, I’m afraid. I’m still working on that feature. Flip the toggle to the left to activate the UCC, then move it to the right to talk to your team.” Fanchon handed the helmet and control to him. “I think that’s everything. I just completed the final upload so you’ll be able to interact with more than eighty types of cetaceans, from the blue whale to the narwhal.” She bit her lip. “At least, I hope so. After all, it is a prototype.”

  Cruz furrowed his brow. “You have tried it out, though, right?”

  “Yes…and no. I did have some interesting conversations with the bottlenose dolphins at the National Aquarium, in Baltimore. However, you’ll be the first human to use it in the wild. And with a whale. I’d planned to do more testing before deployment, but this is an emergency—”

  They heard a series of short beeps. They were coming from the far end of the lab.

  “I’d better go…uh…take care of that,” sputtered Fanchon. “You’ll do fine, Cruz. Right whales are friendly, or so I’ve been told by some dolphins I know.” She grinned.

  He did his best to return the smile.

  Beep. Beep. Beep. They were coming faster.

  “Fanchon!”

  “Be right there, Sidril.” Backing away, the tech chief nodded to Emmett. “By the way, I took a look at your latest Lumagine equations. I’ve got a few ideas, if you want to kick it around a little.”

  “You bet!”

  “I’ve got time tomorrow night.” She disappeared around a corner. “How about seven?”

  “Thanks, Fanchon.” Emmett grinned. “I’ll be here.”

  Bright red fingernails appeared above a partition. “Oh, and, Cruz, if you experience any unusual symptoms in the next few days, you know, from the sensotivia gel, come on back. I’ve got a cream that’ll fix you right up.”

  Cruz put a hand to his chin. It was sticky. “Cream for what?” he called, but Fanchon Quills had already vanished into the jungle of cubicles.

  * * *

  CRUZ WAS ALONE at the rail on the third deck, watching the ship’s bow slice through the glassy sapphire waters of the Atlantic. To his left was the craggy coast of Maine, its line of evergreen trees broken up now and again by long stretches of white sand. Occasionally, the ship would pass a small island, and Cruz would scan for the white column of a lighthouse rising from its rocky shore. The mid-morning October sun and brisk, salty wind felt good on his face. At breakfast, Captain Iskandar had made an all-ship announcement that they should arrive in
the Bay of Fundy around noon. Classes had been canceled for the day. Taryn had instructed the explorers to eat lunch early and rest in their cabins, but Cruz could do neither. He was too nervous. He had come to the outdoor deck to practice what he’d say to the whales. Short and simple, that’s what Fanchon had said.

  Hello. My name is Cruz. Did whales have names?

  Hello. We have come to help. That sounded better.

  It was the listening part that worried him. What if he didn’t understand the whales? What if he misinterpreted a message? What if the translator malfunctioned? The what-ifs had woken him up at 2 a.m., ping-ponging around his brain, and hadn’t stopped since. What if he said the wrong thing? What if he frightened the whales and they swam away before his team could remove the fishing gear? What if he frightened them so much they never trusted humans again?

  His mind reeling, Cruz curled his cold fingers around the rail. This was wrong. This was all wrong. Being a cetacean ambassador was too big of a responsibility. Fanchon should be the one to do it, or Tripp, or, better yet, Monsieur Legrand. Yes, yes, he was the survivalist. Their instructor had done everything from paragliding over the Alps to diving to the ocean floor in the Mariana Trench. Cruz had been nowhere. Done nothing. He wasn’t ready! From the rolling bow of Orion, Cruz tilted his head back, looked up at the swooshes of wispy clouds, and yelled into the wind: “I CAN’T DO IT!” He half expected someone to shout something back. No one did.

  Closing his eyes, Cruz slid his hand inside the lapel of his jacket. Through his shirt, his fingers found the stone cipher. He could feel his heart slamming against it. Sometimes he felt so unsure of himself. Cruz wanted so much to fulfill his mother’s wish and find all the pieces of the cipher, but what if he couldn’t? What if he wasn’t as brave as his mother? What if—

  “Cruz?”

  He turned, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes. He had to brush it away first before he could see Emmett.

  “It’s freezing out here.” Emmett hugged himself. “Come inside. We got our first mail delivery. Your care package from Lani came.”

  Taryn had mentioned that snail mail would be flown in from the Academy once a week. Had it been a week already?

  Prying his hands from the rail, Cruz followed Emmett into the lounge. Along with Lani’s box, there were two envelopes on a table. One envelope was from his dad. The other had his name and address printed by computer on the front and no return address. Sitting down, he reached for Lani’s box first. The moment he slid it close, Cruz had an overwhelming sensation of familiarity, as if he’d been somehow, magically, transported back to Kauai. Once he split open the top seam of the box, Cruz understood why. Lani had sprinkled the shredded recyclable packing paper with pink plumeria petals. Cruz inhaled. It smelled like fresh apricots and roses. And home. Sweeping aside the blossoms, he picked up her note.

  Hi, Cruz,

  Here are a few reminders of the Garden Isle.

  These will have to do. I couldn’t fit a pepperoni and sausage pizza in the box. Don’t forget me while you’re out there on the big blue ocean.

  Love, Lani

  As if he could forget her.

  Beneath the note was a small clear jar with a gold lid. Lifting it, Cruz snickered. Grandma Kealoha’s orange liliko‘i jelly bore a striking resemblance to Fanchon Quills’s sensotivia gel (pre anger mode). Next was a small loaf of bread wrapped in cellophane. He put it to his nose. Banana bread! Beside the bread was a key chain with a miniature blue surfboard attached. When you pressed the side of the board, a light came on. Cool! The last item was a bag filled with macadamia cookies—his favorite—tied with a white-and-lavender ribbon. Cruz knew Lani had made these herself because the edges were on the crispy side. Lani was a top-notch scientist, inventor, pianist, and surfer. She was, however, a less-than-top-notch baker. Cruz put everything back in the box. He’d have to be sure to call Lani soon and thank her for the goodies.

  His dad’s letter contained the usual news from home: The weather was on the rainy side, Cousin Santino’s wedding was beautiful (if rainy), the new line of round beach towels was selling like mad at the Goofy Foot. Business is going well, wrote his dad. I’ve got several students signed up for my surfing class, too. It will be fun to teach again. Looking forward to hearing how your travels are going (that means call me soon!). Miss you. Love, Dad. Cruz folded up his dad’s letter and reached for the mystery envelope. Turning it over, he slid his finger through the top fold. He took out the light blue page inside.

  Dear Cruz,

  I hope I am not too late, but this was the only way I could be certain my message would reach you without being intercepted. Even now, I am not sure it will. Someone on board Orion is going to try to kill you. I don’t know who. I don’t know when. I only know the plan is to steal your mom’s journal, then get rid of you before you turn 13. Do not take any unnecessary risks. I hope to one day meet you, if I live that long…and you do, too.

  —A friend

  “What’s wrong?” asked Emmett.

  Stunned, Cruz handed the letter to him. As his roommate read it, his glasses turned from robin’s egg blue triangles to deep purple half-moons. “Where did this come from?”

  Cruz flipped the envelope. “The postmark is from London, England.”

  “Do you know anyone from there?”

  “Nobody, except Weatherly, but she couldn’t have sent it.” Weatherly Bright, an explorer on Team Galileo, came from London. However, she had been enrolled at the Academy since September along with Cruz and everyone else, so she could hardly have mailed him a letter from England a few days ago.

  Emmett read the letter again. “I get why they might want the journal, but what does your birthday have to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he means by doing away with me they also get rid of the last trace of my mom. I know one thing for sure. I don’t scare as easily as I used to.”

  “You’d better tell your aunt—”

  “No.” Cruz snatched the page from his roommate. “I’m not telling anybody about this and neither are you.” He had come to Explorer Academy to experience the remarkable, to find his passion, and to push himself to discover all he was capable of achieving, but he couldn’t do any of those things if he let fear rule his every move. “Besides, we don’t know who sent it. It’s probably not even true.”

  “I know what you’re up to.” Emmett raised an eyebrow. “You just don’t want anything messing up your chance to talk to the whales.”

  Lifting a shoulder, Cruz grinned. Now that was the truth.

  TRIPP Scarlatos adjusted his headset and turned in his pilot’s seat. “Everybody ready? Too bad if you aren’t, mates, ’cause here we go!”

  Seated in the back section of Ridley, Cruz stretched his neck to peer through the front oval porthole. The massive steel door on Orion’s hull was sliding slowly open. Seawater was pouring into the bay. They were about to launch!

  Next to Tripp in the copilot’s seat, Monsieur Legrand puffed up. “My team is more than ready.” Their instructor glanced back to survey Cruz and his teammates, packed hip to hip on the curved bench in the dive section of the sub. Monsieur Legrand gave them a thumbs-up.

  In their lightweight wet suits, Team Cousteau returned the signal, though it was obvious no one was as confident as their leader. Sailor was chomping the life out of at least four pieces of gum, Dugan’s heels were fidgeting faster than a hummingbird’s wings, and the red and black streaks pulsing through Emmett’s trapezoidal-shaped glasses were moving faster than a race car. Seated between Dugan and Bryndis, Cruz was clutching his UCC dive helmet to his chest so tightly he was sure it was going to burst into a million pieces. Everyone knew what was at stake. This wasn’t a CAVE simulation. They wouldn’t get a second chance. If they didn’t focus, if they didn’t cooperate, oh man, if they made even a single mistake…

  Cruz took a ragged breath and
tried not to think about it.

  With Ridley now fully submerged, Tripp released the holding clamps. They were moving! The pilot delicately maneuvered the sub through the hull opening. Peering out the starboard porthole next to him, Cruz saw a murky blue horizon.

  “Ridley to Orion,” said Tripp. “We have cleared the ship. Operation Cetacean Extrication is under way.”

  Sailor started clapping. Cruz joined in. Sitting behind Tripp, the three members on board from Team Magellan—Ekaterina, Tao, and Zane—were applauding, too.

  Bryndis was nudging him. “Now this is a fundy.”

  “What?”

  “Remember when we played Taryn’s game and I asked you what a fundy was?”

  “That’s right.” He snickered. “Here’s hoping we have a fun day in Fundy.”

  “We will.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s örlög.”

  “What?”

  “Örlög. It means ‘destiny’—you know, doing what you were meant to do. It’s from Norse mythology.”

  Cruz liked the sound of that. He leaned back so he could get a better look through the porthole. Above them, the afternoon sun painted the rippling waters near the surface a light aqua. As his eyes moved downward, the water changed color. It went from aqua to turquoise, then cobalt.

  “You know there are sharks in these waters.” Dugan’s head was inches from Cruz’s. “A great white can rip your leg clean off.”

  “It can,” agreed Cruz matter-of-factly, “but only because it mistakes you for food. Good thing I’m from Hawaii and not from, say, New Mexico, or I might not know what to do if I ever came nose-to-nose with a shark.” Cruz couldn’t resist ribbing Dugan, whom he knew was from Santa Fe.

  “I know what to do,” shot Dugan.

  “Sure you do.” Cruz pointed to the gold chain hanging over the neck of Dugan’s wet suit. “That’s why you won’t forget to tuck that in before we get out there, because you know sharks can mistake jewelry for fish scales, especially on a sunny day.”