Sirens

by Darcy Pattison

  Em thought of how Jake slouched into the coffee shop that day in August. His moves, his face—she was immediately attracted. But he’d been difficult to talk with until she’d spilled a cup of coffee in the lap of some ELLIS officer, and Jake defended her. She’d let him walk her home after that. And every time he tried to talk or do something funny to get her attention, he pulled her in as surely as an expert fisherman cranking in a big fish. Jake had her hook, line and sinker.

  She couldn’t jump off his hook; she didn’t want to jump off his hook. Shelby Bulmer, for example, could never be her boyfriend just because he was also a quarter Phoke. She doubted someone a quarter Japanese would claim her affections, either. Her affections were already taken. Love had nothing to do with family or genetics. Even Romeo and Juliet knew that.

  Em thought the conversation was over, but Dr. Bari pushed back against her decision. “Will you reconsider? Will you come to Aberforth Hills for high school?”

  Em remembered a long-ago conversation with her adopted sister. Marisa had been ten or eleven and Em was only five or six. Because she was so much older, it was one of the last times that Marisa played dolls with Em. From somewhere, Mom had ordered an Asian baby doll for Em while Marisa had a large American Girl doll. They named them Chika and Arabella. They sat on the deck—it must have been summer because it was warm. Marisa brought out her china tea set, and they had milk and graham crackers.

  Marisa fed Arabella and then leaned over to Chika. “Who was your birth mother?” she asked.

  Em screwed up her face. “Her momma birthed her.”

  Marisa nodded. “Yes. But now, you’re her momma. You didn’t birth her. You’re the adopted mother.”

  “Oh,” Em said. The family talked about birth mothers and adopted mothers; nothing was kept secret from either girl. They knew they didn’t have the same birth mothers or fathers, and that’s why they looked so different.

  Marisa tapped Chika’s forehead and repeated, “Who was your birth mother?”

  Irritated, Em pulled Chika back into a hug. “Who cares?”

  Taken aback, Marisa tilted her head and stared at Em. “Well. Maybe I care.”

  “Why?” To Em, it was obvious that birth mothers didn’t matter. They were gone.

  Marisa tossed her head. “Well, you’re too little to understand,” she said with the superiority of an almost teenager. “Sometimes, you know, I just wonder if I’ll ever get to meet my mom and dad.”

  Em smiled ruefully at the memory. She had been too young to understand. Now, at fifteen, it did matter. Finding out that her mother was a member of a hidden race of Phoke, well, it did matter. She just didn’t know how it mattered or how much it mattered. The only thing she knew for sure was that she loved Mom and Dad, the only family she’d known growing up. She’d hate anyone who made her try to choose.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I want to go home to Bainbridge Island. And I want to talk with my parents. Today.”

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t do that yet.”

  “Why not?” she demanded.

  “Because you’re not well enough to leave. I told them you’d be in isolation for about a month, so they are confident you are doing well. But I can’t allow you to tell them all about Aberforth Hills.” He paused, then smiled wryly. “Wait until the day after Christmas. You can talk to them then.”

  “Why then?”

  “Contingency Plan.”

  “What’s that?” Em asked.

  “You’ll find out.” He stood. “You’re welcome here in your family’s home for as long as you stay in Aberforth Hills. Make yourself comfortable.” Before she could speak, he held up a hand. “I’ll stay out of your way. You may come and go as you like. Just take it easy so you don’t relapse.”

  Dr. Bari pushed back his chair, stood, and strode away, leaving Em to stare at the sandwich on her plate and wonder, “What is the Contingency Plan?”

  15

  Submarine Wreck

  December 23

  “Chlorine gas?” Jake asked. “That’s what sank the sub?”

  Mom nodded. “When the sea water hit the chemical batteries, it released chlorine gas that filled the submarine. “If they didn’t come up for air, all of the Nazi crew would have died.”

  “Once it surfaced, the British Navy captured them. Right?”

  Mom leaned on the deck railings and stared ahead. They were twelve miles out to sea just off Aberdeenshire, north of Edinburgh. The waters were choppy, but nothing the Royal Navy couldn’t handle. “The sub’s crew didn’t even put up much of a fight.”

  “So, how did the sea water get into the sub and the battery compartment?”

  Mom turned to him, her eyes twinkling with mirth. After a good night’s sleep, they both looked better. Jake’s temperature was back to a normal 108, and his stomach wound wasn’t an angry red now, just a dull red. His faster and hotter Risonian physiology meant a rapid recuperation, and it was good to know that Earth’s antibiotics worked on Risonians.

  “You’re going to like this,” Mom said. “When a submarine goes underwater, it’s under a lot of pressure. One of the biggest engineering problems was the toilet.”

  “No way,” Jake interrupted.

  Laughing, Mom said, “Yes. The toilets were complicated. To flush something away, you opened a series of valves in a specific order. Someone got it wrong and the toilet backed up, letting seawater flood the sub. When it reached the battery compartment under the toilet, the acids in the battery reacted with the sea water and gave off chlorine gas. That meant they had to come up for fresh air. When the British arrived, the German commander scuttled his boat rather than let it be captured.”

  “And they know where this happened?”

  “Yes, in Cruden Bay. And we’re going down to see the German submarine U-1206.”

  “What depth?”

  “70 meters,” she said.

  Jake shrugged. That was deep for Risonian anatomy, but easily within their ability.

  The boat shuddered to a stop, the morning sun glinting off the gentle swells. Jake and Mom turned to the group of military officers who waited for them.

  “Ma’am, it will take us a few minutes to put on our scuba gear,” said Captain Heath Bulmer. “Do you need anything?”

  The tall British Navy diver had met them at their hotel and driven them to the dock where they climbed on board a large Navy boat. On board, he’d introduced the other divers. A lean Hispanic woman, Captain Meryl Puentes, represented the U.S. Navy, while the Greek Navy was represented by a swarthy man with a huge mustache and eyebrows, Colonel Sammy Vanzetti. Other uniformed men were from Estonia, China, Argentina, and Japan. They were handpicked to represent the United Nations team currently working with the Risonian Ambassador.

  The team quickly adjusted equipment, settling heavy bottles of air on their backs, adjusting gloves and checking their breathing apparatuses. Everyone was a pro. They expected to dive for less than 30 minutes, all that humans could endure at the 70-80 meter depth.

  Mom had cautioned Jake, saying, “They won’t have long to look around. Stay with the group, and when they want to go up, we go up. Match their speed. Don’t do anything to make them worry.”

  Jake rolled his eyes and nodded. He knew how to hide his real capabilities. That was his entire life, hiding in plain sight.

  They waited until Captains Bulmer and Puentes had entered the water and then dove in. The others wore full scuba gear to protect them from the cold, but Mom had a simple one-piece swimming suit while Jake wore a pair of swim shorts and a wetsuit vest. The vest kept his stomach wound protected, and hidden, but it still left his armpits and gills free. The Navy officers would want to see their gills and Velcroed legs in action. Like all the divers, the Risonians wore a belt from which hung a slate and special marking pen to write on for communication. Within moments, everyone was in the water. The Earthlings carried high-intensity lights, and someone—behind the scuba gear, Jake thought it was the Argentinian—carried an underwa
ter camera.

  Mom wouldn’t like that, Jake thought, but he understood the Earthling’s unease around them.

  Jake zipped his legs together and undulated his body, heading downward. Captain Bulmer’s face mask was outlined in a fluorescent yellow, which made him easy to pick out of the crowd. Jake was careful to stay behind Bulmer, letting him lead.

  Mom swam easily. In fact, Jake couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in the water for a swim. Maybe it was last August when they were with Dad at Gulf Shores, Alabama. She’d enjoyed the Gulf of Mexico with its warm waters and sugar-like sand. Here, in the colder waters, she swam with an energy and grace, circling up and around and back down to keep track of all the divers.

  They’d only have fifteen minutes at the submarine’s depth, and then they’d have to go back up slowly to prevent DCS, or decompression sickness.

  The submarine lay half buried in the sand. In the glare of the Navy lights, it seemed pewter gray, though Jake thought it was originally painted blue. The sub looked like a strange hotel for marine life, what with its barnacles, darting fish, floating jellyfish and—Jake stopped, suddenly suspicious.

  One rock was too still. The surrounding rocks had growths that waved back and forth gently in the water currents, but this one waved just a tad out of sync. Jake suspected the rock was an octopus. He swam down until he was a foot away from the rock. Maybe it was just a rock. It certainly looked like one. Captain Puentes had followed him, and she pointed a camera at him.

  Jake gave her a thumbs up, and then poked at the rock.

  The octopus flinched and squirted away.

  Jake flinched, too, his heart thumping at the octopus’s sudden transformation. Then, with an inward grin, he chased the octopus down the length of the submarine until it suddenly did its disappearing act and became a rock again.

  Looking around, only Puentes had followed him. The others were gesturing to them to come back, pointing upward.

  The time had flown by. Jake’s water breathing was so easy and natural that he’d almost forgotten that the Earthlings relied on the scuba gear. Mom had explained what “scuba” meant: Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus. Mostly, it meant they had to be vigilant about how much time they spent underwater.

  As he turned and swam back toward the group, he glanced back at Puentes. Around her mouth regulator, she managed to frown. Above her face mask, her eyebrows were squeezed together. She was angry.

  Jake guessed it was because she’d lost track of time, too. He shrugged it off. They’d be up top soon, and she’d forget it.

  Now, it was a matter of timing their ascent. Watching their depth gauges and watches carefully, they rose a certain distance and waited at that depth a prescribed amount of time for their bodies to adjust to the different pressures.

  Jake chaffed at the hurry-up-and-wait progression to the surface. He kicked around above and below the waiting divers, trying to entertain himself. Puentes stayed with him, going up and down with him. He motioned her to join the others who were stationary, but she shook her head and continued the Follow-the-Leader game, as if Jake might suddenly dart off if she wasn’t on his tail.

  On the third level, a school of herring descended on them. It was a glittering mass of motion, as fish circled, darted, and swam in unfathomable formations. The divers kept their depth consistent, but with difficulty. In the glistening silver, Jake lost sight of Puentes. Finally, he thought, his shadow was gone.

  But then, below them and sinking deeper, he spied Puentes, who was grabbing at her leg.

  She had a cramp, he realized. Fear grabbed at his stomach. This was a serious problem for a human!

  He darted through the silver mass of fish, shoving them away with his hands and arms to reach his mother. He pointed downward.

  Together, they thrust their leg-tails to go deeper and catch up to Puentes. When she saw them coming, Jake realized that Puentes was in a panic. She tried to evade them, kicking hard, but then pulling up because of the cramp.

  Mom grabbed Puentes’s arm, but the diver wriggled around, trying to escape. Jake grabbed her other arm, and together they forced Puentes to stop. Struggling to hold on and get his slate around, Jake managed to write, “DCS! Let us help you!”

  Vehemently, Puentes shook her head.

  Jake realized that her thinking was impaired. If they didn’t get help, she would freak out and not make it. He flapped his hands at his mom and used the miniature waves of water to tell her that he was going for help.

  Mom nodded. Hurry, she seemed to say.

  Above them, the other divers were still ascending. Jake quickly darted upward, using his leg-tail to powerfully speed through the water. He saw Bulmer’s yellow-trimmed mask and turned to intercept him.

  Bulmer started backing away as if Jake was attacking.

  But Jake stopped ten feet away and held up his slate for Bulmer to read.

  The diver dropped the harpoon, which was attached to his arm with a long rope. Instead, he grabbed his own slate. “Puentes has DCS?”

  Jake nodded, then lifted his arms and shrugged as if to ask, “What do I do?”

  The diver pointed to his regulator and wrote, “No air. Can’t go back down.”

  Jake pointed upward and quickly wrote, “Going up for help.”

  It was a tense half-hour. Jake quickly explained to the ship’s captain what was happening. They called for a helicopter and a compression chamber.

  Then Jake carried down a couple more scuba tanks. Bulmer took a fresh tank and accompanied Jake back to where Mom was holding Puentes. At the sight of Bulmer, Puentes seemed to calm a bit and let him hold her instead of Mom. One tactic to deal with DCS was to dive deeper and hope that the gas bubbles recompressed and took some stress off the diver’s body.

  Slowly, they began surfacing again, following protocols.

  An hour later, they broke the surface with Puentes, and the waiting medical personnel took over.

  Slumped over on the medical cot, breathing a special mixture of air, Puentes waved at Jake. She pulled aside her mask and said with slurred speech. “You did that deliberately. You went for the octopus to pull me deeper and keep me there longer.”

  Jake was speechless. “No! I wouldn’t do that!”

  The other divers turned to stare at Jake.

  “She’s not thinking clearly,” he protested. “I looked at the octopus, but I didn’t do it to keep her under.”

  Captain Bulmer, holding his yellow-rimmed mask, looked grimly from Puentes to Jake.

  Jake had always felt like he owed the universe for not dying when he was ten. Volcanologists had invited his step-dad Swann to take a look at the crater of the Ja-Ram Volcano on the western edge of Tizzalura. Swann had brought Jake, saying it was a good field trip for him.

  Standing on the edge of the crater, he balanced on a small ledge of hardened volcanic rock. Looking at the molten lava bubbling below, Jake’s face felt scorched. He shifted his feet, thinking that he’d back away. Instead, his boots knocked the ledge somehow, and the brittle rock broke off. He slipped, falling onto his back and sliding on the rock like it was a polished glass slide. He flailed, hands reaching for something, anything. At the last second, Swann caught his wrist. Another scientists caught Swann around the waist. Still, the momentum swept them forward until Jake dangled by his arm over the crater.

  Oh, maybe if he’d fallen, the edges of the crater’s bowl were hard enough to hold his weight. Maybe he would have been able to climb back up. Maybe. . .

  All he knew was that he should’ve died. He vowed to help anyone else he ever saw who was in trouble. The fact that they now questioned his actions and motives crushed him. He would never deliberately do the equivalent of hanging someone over a volcano’s crater. Never.

  Jake lifted his hands in an appeal for understanding.

  Bulmer pursed his lips and turned away to take off his gear.

  The Army nurses gave Puentes a shot that knocked her out, and lifted her into a portable compressi
on chamber for a med-flight back to the Edinburgh hospital where there waited a specialist in decompression problems.

  Mom reached over and touched Bulmer’s shoulder. “Puentes,” she said. “Is she related to General Puentes of the ELLIS Forces?”

  “His only daughter, only child.”

  Mom and Jake groaned together. General Puentes would never believe this was an accident caused by Puentes being too compulsive about staying close to Jake.

  Captain Heath Bulmer said, “I don’t know if you tried to keep her under too long or not. But if you weren’t there, she would’ve died. I’ll make sure that’s in my report.” He unzipped his wetsuit and shrugged it off his shoulders. Underneath, he wore a tight wicking t-shirt.

  “Thank you,” Mom said formally. “We’d appreciate your independent and unbiased report.”

  Jake was relieved, but still worried. General Puentes didn’t strike him as the most reasonable person. He doubted that the General would believe the event was innocent on Jake’s part.

  Captain Bulmer pulled off his scuba boots, and then straightened. “I’m all done in for today. But tomorrow, on Christmas Eve, are you available for brunch? I’d like to take the two of you for a real Scottish Christmas brunch. We’ll have Scottish oatmeal, scones and tea. And a few special things for Christmas.”

  Mom studied him with a politician’s eye. “That sounds lovely. But I have to ask, will it just be a Scottish brunch, or are you wanting to discuss other things?”

  “We know that Jake saved Seattle from a Mt. Rainier explosion. And now, he’s saved a diver whose father has attacked you personally. He’s acted with bravery and generosity. We believe that Rison’s cause should get a wider hearing. We believe that discussions are always interesting.”

  Jake wanted to laugh. Bulmer’s manner was noncommittal, and his phrasing was intentionally vague and vaguely complimentary; he was a good politician.

  Mom’s eyes lit up at the politic-speak. “Very well. Christmas Eve Brunch.”