The Lost City of Faar

by D. J. MacHale

  To our right were aisles of fences where viney plants grew. This section held the same dark green, pickle-looking fruit that we had found in the cavern underwater. Another area of vines was covered with fruit that looked like round white disks. This odd fruit looked fragile and fluttered when the wind blew.

  There was another whole section that grew beneath the shade of a gauzy tarp. These must have been plants that do better with indirect light. I’m guessing that the covered area took up a square mile. Another whole area looked to be planted with some kind of wheat. Unbelievable.

  I watched as workers went busily about their jobs, tending to the crops. Some were pickers, others took water and soil samples. Still others did pruning.

  The best word I can use to describe this vast farm full of lush fruits and vegetables is . . . perfect.

  “This habitat feeds around thirty thousand people, give or take,” Uncle Press explained. “The crating is done below and it’s all transported forward. There’s another dock near the bow where boats from other habitats arrive to transport the produce back to their homes. It’s all very efficient.”

  “How many people work here?” I asked.

  “I think about two hundred,” he answered. “Only about fifty live here full-time: the habitat pilot and crew, some support people, the farm supervisors, and the agronomers.”

  “Agronomers?”

  “Scientists. The guys who figure out what gets planted where. They’re always experimenting with fertilizers and crop rotation and whatnot.”

  “Then there are about sixty aquaneers like Spader who keep the habitat running smoothly and coordinate the comings and goings of all the small boats. They live here in short shifts—maybe three months at a time. The rest of the people are like migrant farm workers. They come and go depending on the needs of the crops. That’s where all the short-timers live.”

  He pointed far off to the left, where I saw a row of low houses running along the length of one side of the habitat. The houses looked like small, two-level homes.

  “The homes on the other side are for the long-timers—the pilot and agronomers and whatnot.”

  I looked far to my right and saw another row of houses along the opposite side that seemed to be a bit larger than the others. And why not? If these people were here permanently, they should have bigger homes.

  “We’re at the stern,” he pointed out. “This is where most of the farm equipment is kept and where the agronomers work. In the bow there’s a big wheelhouse where the habitat is controlled, but there are smaller control sheds on each side.”

  “This is a weird thing to say about a farm but, it’s beautiful,” I said.

  “It’s not weird at all. It is beautiful. Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Leaving that ominous thought hanging, Uncle Press started climbing back down the stairs to the main deck.

  “What do you mean? What could happen?” I asked while following.

  “Did you forget why we’re here?” said Uncle Press tersely.

  Oh, right. Saint Dane. The turning point. For a few seconds I actually stopped worrying about him. It was hard to imagine this place facing any kind of huge turmoil. Not like Denduron. That territory was a mess from the get-go. This place seemed more like, I don’t know, Eden.

  “So what do we do?” I asked, feeling kind of dumb for asking my previous question.

  “I think we should live here for a while,” he answered. “If Saint Dane is here, he’ll be planning something. The best thing we can do is blend in, get to know the territory, and be ready if something strange happens.”

  “Which leads me to another question,” I said.

  “Of course it does,” he replied. Wise guy.

  “What do you tell people when you flume to a new territory? Don’t they wonder who you are? Where you came from? Why you just happened to drop out of nowhere?”

  “Ahhh,” said Uncle Press knowingly. “Good question. Obviously you can’t go telling people you’re a Traveler from a distant territory and you’re here to prevent their world from crumbling into chaos. That would be bad.”

  “Yes, that would be bad,” I agreed.

  “But there’s another way of saying it,” he went on. “I have told Spader that I’m from a distant habitat and my goal is to see all of Cloral. So I’m traveling around, going where my mood takes me and picking up work to help pay for my journey.”

  We had reached the bottom of the tower and Uncle Press stopped and looked at me.

  “The thing is,” he said with a sly smile, “that’s not far from the truth. I just leave out the part about trying to prevent the collapse of their civilization. That would be hard to explain.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  We continued walking along the perimeter of the farm.

  “So we’ll take jobs here. It’s not difficult work. They’re always looking for help. And we’ll stay vigilant. The more you know about a territory, the better chance you’ll have of helping them. That’s what I did on Denduron.”

  “And when do we tell Spader that he’s a Traveler?” I asked.

  “When we need to,” came the quick reply.

  Uncle Press picked up the pace and I had to keep up with him. He suddenly seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

  “Where are we going now?”

  “You heard Spader!” he answered, suddenly sounding all enthusiastic. “Sniggers are on him at Grolo’s. You don’t pass up an offer like that.”

  Sniggers at Grolo’s. I guessed that would be a good thing.

  We walked to the far side of the habitat where the temporary housing quarters were. Close-up they looked like small apartments. Nothing fancy, but nice enough. Men and women were hanging out, some were reading, others played with their kids. Two guys were playing catch with a curved tube that looked like a boomerang. I watched as they threw it far off to the side, only to have it circle back and land right in the catcher’s hands. It was the Cloran version of playing Frisbee.

  All these people wore the same lightweight, colorful clothing that Uncle Press and I now had on. We fit right in. Many smiled and waved a friendly greeting as we passed by. Uncle Press made sure to return every wave and I did the same. These people didn’t know who we were, but it didn’t seem to matter. They looked like a friendly bunch and that was okay with me.

  After walking for what seemed like a mile, we came upon another row of low buildings that ran parallel to the homes along the edge. I didn’t have to ask what they were. It was a minimall Grallion-style. There was a clothing store and a place to get haircuts. A small grocery store was next to a small library and that was next to a shop that carried a little bit of everything from tools to toys to cookware. On Second Earth we had a name for this kind of store. Target.

  I wondered if there was a video arcade hidden somewhere, but then figured that was probably something unique to Second Earth. Oh, well. We got to the far end of the shops and finally arrived at our destination. A carved sign over the door welcomed all who came this way. It said simply: GROLO’S.

  “Center of the Grallion universe,” said Uncle Press. “And the finest sniggers ever pulled on any habitat this side of center.”

  “If you say so,” I said, humoring him.

  “Actually I have no idea,” he said softly. “I haven’t had sniggers anywhere else, but that’s what they tell me.”

  He winked and entered the pub. I was right after him, excited about finally discovering the wonders of the much-talked-about sniggers.

  As we walked inside, I saw that Grolo’s was pretty much your standard tavern. I guess it doesn’t matter what territory you’re on, people like to meet and drink and swap stories and laugh too loud, because that’s exactly what was going on here. There was odd music playing, though I’m sure to the good people of Cloral it wasn’t odd at all. If I were to liken the music to something at home, I’d say it was kind of a New Age, techno, Japanese, string thing. How’s that for a description? I know, it makes no sens
e, but if you heard it, you’d agree. I have to admit, I didn’t hate it. It had kind of a dance beat and added a strong helping of feel-good to the place.

  The pub was jammed. It was a mix of men and women of all ages, though I think I was the youngest there. I suddenly wondered if they would card me. That would have been embarrassing. Not only was I underage (at least by Second Earth standards), I didn’t have any ID on me at all. If anyone asked, it would have gotten tricky. But they didn’t, I’m glad to report.

  Everyone seemed to be having a good time while drinking, or laughing, or telling stories, or doing all three at once. I noticed one table of people who weren’t swept up in all the revelry though. There were four people, two men and two women, who were having an intense debate. The table they sat around was covered with large pieces of paper that looked like plans of some sort. They each kept jabbing their fingers at the plans while trying to make their point.

  “Agronomers,” Uncle Press said. “I think they’re the only people around here who ever get stressed.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “It’s their show. Grallion is about farming and if Grallion doesn’t produce, then they’re not doing their job.”

  I looked again at the agronomers, but now with respect. That’s got to be some kind of serious pressure. If they fail, people don’t eat.

  “Press!” someone called out above the din. “What kept you? I thought you got into another natty-do with the sharkies!”

  It was Spader. He had beaten us there. He sat on the bar, surrounded by a few other people who were laughing and drinking with him.

  Uncle Press strode right up to the group.

  “I thought you were in for a tum-tigger with Yenza!” exclaimed Press.

  Sheesh, we’d just gotten here and Uncle Press was already picking up on the local jargon. I figured I’d better keep on my toes.

  “Me?” laughed Spader with huge bravado. “Now why would dear Yenza have a row with me? I fill her life with happiness and joy!” He then added slyly, “And besides, I think she fancies me. If she were to kick me off Grallion, she’d die of a broken heart.”

  Everyone laughed at Spader’s high praise of himself, but it was a friendly laugh. They knew Spader was joking. It was all just a goof.

  “The chances of Wu Yenza dying of heartache over the sorry likes of you,” shouted one guy jovially, “is about the same as old Grolo running out of sniggers.”

  Everyone hooted in mock horror. A quick look around showed me that everyone was drinking from clear mugs that were filled with a deep red liquid that I figured was the legendary sniggers. Spader leaned back over the bar and grabbed the handle of the tap that I assumed was where they drew the sniggers. He pretended to pull it, and his eyes went wide with shock.

  “Empty!” he shouted in overblown horror. “Hobey-ho, he’s run out of sniggers! Yenza does fancy me!”

  Everybody laughed. A heavyset guy behind the bar, who must have been Grolo, playfully shoved Spader away from the tap.

  “Don’t go startin’ rumors,” he said, laughing, “or it’ll be up to you to stop the riot!”

  Spader laughed and rolled away. Grolo grabbed the tap and drew another mug of the frothy red liquid. Everyone was having a great time and Spader was the reason. He was the center of attention and he didn’t disappoint those who wanted him to keep the party rolling. He grabbed a mug of sniggers and exclaimed, “So where is he, Press?”

  “Standing right here, watching the show,” answered Uncle Press.

  Who were they talking about? Spader handed Press the mug of sniggers and quickly glanced around. In a second his eyes settled on me. Uh-oh. He was talking about me. I was sure that he had already told the story about how I got tangled up in the water sled and had to be rescued. I wanted to crawl away and hide. If I was going to live on Grallion, I didn’t want people to think that I was a total loser. For a second I thought of turning and running, but that would have made it worse. No, I was going to have to face the ridicule. I could only hope that it would be fast.

  “That’s the guy!” shouted Spader.

  All eyes turned to me. The best I could do was stand there and take it. I thought that maybe I could come up with something clever to make it all a joke. But my mind locked. I couldn’t come up with anything funny about what had happened. My sore ribs and aching shoulder were a painful reminder of that.

  “If it weren’t for him,” began Spader, “Press would be shark meat.”

  Huh? I looked to Uncle Press. He raised his mug of sniggers at me and winked.

  “Press was trapped under the shelf,” said Spader, spinning a dramatic tale that had everyone enthralled. “The nasty wogglie was nosing in on him. He was a big ’un, mind you. But then Pendragon here came flying by with the water sled. With no fear for himself, he distracted the beggar and gave Press the chance to slip away. Bravest thing I ever saw. Of course, I was lucky enough to be in the right place to put the finishing touches on the big wogglie myself.”

  He added this last bit with false modesty and everyone responded with hoots, like they didn’t think he deserved any credit at all. No, in their minds, the real hero was me! I couldn’t believe it. Suddenly, a mug of sniggers was thrust into my hand.

  “To Pendragon!” shouted Spader. He raised his mug in a toast. Everyone else around the bar raised their mugs toward me as well. Uncle Press did too, with a huge smile on his face.

  “Welcome to Grallion!” added Spader.

  “Hobey-ho ho!” chimed everyone else as they raised their mugs to drink in my honor.

  I couldn’t believe it. Talk about snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, no pun intended. Of course, I felt a little guilty. It didn’t exactly happen the way Spader described it. But still, it was sort of the truth. I looked to Spader and he gave me a little smile that told me he knew it was only sort of the truth too. But it didn’t matter to him. He motioned for me to take a drink of sniggers, and I did.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had tasted beer once before and I guess that’s what I thought it would be like, but it wasn’t. That was a good thing because I hated the taste of beer. To be honest, the first taste of sniggers that hit my tongue was totally nasty. It was like drinking carbonated cabbage juice. But in an instant the sour taste went away and what I was left with was an incredibly sweet sensation that actually left my mouth tingling. I once had this soda in Maine called Moxie. When Moxie first hits your tongue it tastes sweet, but after you swallow it leaves a nasty, bitter taste. This sniggers stuff was like reverse-Moxie. The first taste was foul, but it immediately went away and left a wonderful memory that lingered until your next sip. I liked this stuff! Hobey-ho ho!

  “Put these on my tab, Grolo!” announced Spader as he jumped off the bar. “I’ve got business with my friends.”

  “You don’t have a tab, Spader,” barked Grolo.

  “Then start one for me!” Spader shot back with bravura.

  Grolo waved him off with a mock disgusted gesture. I didn’t think he minded giving away a few pints of sniggers to Spader. The aquaneer was the life of the party here at the tavern. The more stories he told, the more everyone else drank sniggers. Spader was good for business. He put an arm around Uncle Press, his other arm around me, and led us away from the group toward the front door.

  But when we reached the table of agronomers, he suddenly stopped and turned us to them. The scientists stopped their work and looked up to us expectantly.

  “We just want you mates to know,” said Spader, “we think you are doing a bang-up job. Really.”

  The scientists didn’t know how to react. They just sat there and stared at us.

  “Now get back to work!” snapped Spader and led us toward the door. As we walked he whispered to us, “Scientists. They’re brilliant but easily confused.”

  We blasted out of Grolo’s into the sunlight, laughing.

  I really liked this guy. But even though I was grateful for his story back there, I couldn’t let it go without
saying something.

  “That story you told about me,” I said. “You know that wasn’t really how it happened.”

  “Says who?” Spader shot back. “That’s how I saw it. There’s always two ways of looking at things, Pendragon. In my few short years I learned that seeing what’s positive about a situation is a lot more fun and gets you a lot further than looking for what might be wrong with it. That’s my philosophy, for what it’s worth.”

  Spader may not have been a wise old soul, but what he said made a whole lot of sense. I didn’t think I had ever met anyone who was as full of energy and fun as this guy was. Without trying all that hard, he made you feel good. I could tell Spader had even gotten to Uncle Press. He said that Cloral was his favorite territory. I’m sure there were a lot of reasons for that, but I’m guessing Spader was a big one. It was fun to be around him. Over the next few weeks I learned a lot more about Vo Spader, and all of it was good.

  He was the kind of guy who knew the right people to go to in order to get things done. He got Uncle Press and me set up in a small house near his. It was on the side of Grallion where the temporary workers lived, and since we had become temporary workers, we were right at home. The place was small, but comfortable enough. There were bunk beds (I got the top) and a small kitchen and some simple furniture. The best part about it though, was that the back window looked right out on the ocean. How great was that?

  He got us jobs working on the farm. I was afraid this was going to be torture, but it wasn’t. Not all of it, anyway. At home on Second Earth the big farms employ pickers who show up during harvest time, pick whatever needs to be picked, and move on to another. That seemed like pretty hard work, and not all that rewarding.

  But that’s not how it worked on Grallion. Rather than simply going out to pick whatever is ripe, the farm workers on Grallion are assigned to a quadrant. That’s an area roughly the size of an acre. The workers are called “vators” and they have the responsibility of taking complete care of their quadrant, from feeding the plants to pruning, and yes, to picking the fruit. But the vators’ responsibility doesn’t end with the picking. They follow their crops all the way through the washing, sorting, and packing process right up until their crops are shipped out. It’s very cool and gives you a real sense of accomplishment. I guess it’s the difference between working on an auto assembly line where your whole job is to put the wheels on cars as they pass by you, versus staying with the same car from the very beginning and proudly watching it roll off the line.