Born to Be Wild

by Matt London

  “She must have felt like the most irresponsible little lump on all eight continents,” Rick said with a humph. “But I’m sure she’ll be back soon, blaming me for everything that went wrong.”

  They met up with Rick’s parents in the Roost’s navigation room. Dad made Diana a cup of raspberry iced tea, which she drank graciously. Sweets and berries were both prohibited in Winterpole facilities. Had Rick gone to visit Diana, all she would have been able to offer him was ice.

  “So what’s Winterpole up to now?” Rick asked as Diana drained her glass.

  She wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her junior agent uniform. “I’ve been issued orders to deliver this to you in an official capacity. My mom thought I’d enjoy giving you the bad news myself. If only she knew how I really felt about your family . . . but never mind all that. You’d better read this.”

  Diana opened her shoulder bag and produced a heavy stack of white paper. Faint black type lined every page. Rick’s dad picked up the papers and inspected them carefully. “Looks like some kind of cease-and-desist.” He sighed and slapped the papers down on the table. “Haven’t they learned that they don’t get to set rules for the eighth continent? We are outside of Winterpole’s jurisdiction. They have no power here.”

  Tucking one of her dangling curls behind her ear, Diana said, “Yes, but they do get to regulate everything that happens on the other seven continents, and that’s where the trouble is. Here . . . I should just explain. You can build whatever kind of settlement you want here on the eighth continent, but Winterpole has established strict guidelines for what kind of place people from the other seven continents can move to. If a settlement, even on the eighth continent, doesn’t meet Winterpole’s guidelines—and there are a lot of guidelines—then people won’t be able to move there.”

  “Well, that’s a real cork on our cauldron!” Dad sounded more agitated than Rick had heard him in a long time. “This is exactly the kind of back-door obstructionism we were trying to get away from.”

  “Calm down, George.” Mom put her comforting hands on his shoulders. “Getting worked up is no good for your heart. Winterpole wants you riled.”

  Dad sighed. “I know. You’re right, honey.”

  “So what can we do?” Rick asked, flipping through the papers Diana had brought.

  “You’ll have to apply for a certificate of occupancy,” she explained. “It’s paperwork. You know how Winterpole operates. You have to meet all their guidelines for what a model settlement should be. Schools, hospitals, government buildings, infrastructure. The works. Set up everything, pass a Winterpole inspection, and the certificate is yours.”

  “Okay!” Rick said, getting excited. “That’s not so bad. Those are all things we hope to implement in the settlement anyway. So we start work now, and in another six months or a year, we’ll pass that inspection, no problem. We’ll overtax the worker robots in the meantime, but that’s nothing to get stressed about.”

  Diana grimaced. “Uh, Rick . . . there’s just one problem. The window to apply for the certificate expires in just five days. If you don’t pass the inspection by then, you’ll never be able to acquire it, and no one will be allowed to move to the eighth continent—ever.”

  “Five days? But that’s impossible.”

  “Yeah!” Rick’s dad added. “It’s almost like Winterpole doesn’t want us to pass the inspection.”

  “That’s Winterpole,” Diana said sadly. “In 1954, then Director of Winterpole Margot Snurslot grew tired of receiving applications and other documents months after the issue dates, so she established the five-day rule. All applications must be received within a five-day window of their solicitation. It’s a necessity when you consider the billions and billions of requests Winterpole receives. Here’s the bottom line: you got your continent, but Winterpole will do everything it can to keep you from forming a society here.”

  “Don’t get down, Rick.” Dad gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll think of something. We’re Lanes. We always do.”

  Diana rose from her seat. “I’d better go. I’m going to be late getting back as it is.”

  “Stay,” Rick said. “We’ll need your help.”

  With a shake of her head, Diana replied, “I won’t be help to anyone if Winterpole finds out what I’ve been up to. I’ll do my best to keep you posted on whatever develops. I’m sorry I can’t offer more. Goodbye, Mr. Lane, Mrs. Lane. I’m sorry, Rick. Good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  A cloud of guilt hung over Diana as she piloted her hovership away from the Lane settlement. She felt so helpless, bringing bad news and then leaving without offering any assistance. But suspicious eyes were on her all the time. Her mother didn’t trust her, Mister Snow didn’t trust her, and the other junior agents were always trying to bring her down. The circumstances of George Lane’s escape from the Prison at the Pole were suspicious, to say the least, and the Lane family had been especially effective at avoiding Winterpole’s traps of late. It was obvious they were getting help from somewhere. Combine that with Diana’s history with another Winterpole enemy, her ex–best friend Vesuvia Piffle, and it wasn’t hard to see why she was feeling constricted at Winterpole Headquarters.

  A loud chittering sound pulled Diana from her reverie—a sound like a cross between a cicada and a robot squirrel. But it was just the old tickertape printer the Winterpole shuttles used to communicate. Diana could guess what the message said before she even read it. She’d taken too long delivering the bad news to the Lanes. Two penalties!

  Fearing the worst, she tore off the message and studied the narrow print.

  WP—OFFICIAL COMMUNIQUE

  FROM—SNOW, SRA

  TO—MAPLE, JRA

  REROUTE DESTINATION.

  INPUT NEW COORDINATES.

  OVERRIDE EXISTING OBJECTIVES.

  NEW DESTINATION:

  6701-Q4CX2A.

  That’s strange, Diana thought. Her existing destination coordinates were Winterpole Headquarters back in Geneva, Switzerland. These new coordinates were nowhere near there; she could tell just from looking. In fact, the new coordinates were close by. Very close by.

  She punched the new coordinates into the navigation system. Her stomach lurched as the shuttle swung around onto its new trajectory. Diana couldn’t believe it ...the shuttle was headed back to the eighth continent.

  Over the landscape the shuttle soared. It truly was a beautiful continent. She found it hard to believe that the lush forests and rolling hills had at one point been the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

  The shuttle took her to the north end of the continent, a rocky patch of terrain crossed with natural springs and streams. Scores of Winterpole hoverships, tanks, and other machines were parked on the rocks in a neat, orderly grid. An agent in one of Winterpole’s trademark iceberg helmets waved a glowing wand to direct Diana to a landing bay.

  When she emerged from her shuttle, two agents, a man and a boy, were waiting for her. The man was middle-aged, smooth-cheeked, and his hair was dark, except for his white sideburns. He wore a crisp suit, white as a fresh piece of printer paper.

  The suit was what made Diana’s eyebrow go up. This was new. “Congratulations on your promotion, Mister Snow,” she said with a slight bow.

  Mister Snow straightened the bottom of his suit coat. “Your words have been recognized, Junior Agent Maple. Yes, the Director has given me command of the massive operation you see around you. This is big, very big, perhaps the largest Winterpole undertaking in twenty years.”

  The boy at Mister Snow’s side sneered, smoothing back his greasy dark hair. “You’re looking haggard and unproductive, as usual, Diana.”

  “Why, thank you, Benjamin,” Diana retorted sarcastically. “I’m surprised that with so much time to think about it, you couldn’t come up with a better insult than that.”

  “That’s because my daily schedule blocks
out only a few meager seconds to ponder the uselessness of inferior Winterpole agents.”

  Classic Benjamin Nagg. As good at being a vicious toad as he was at being a Winterpole junior agent. He and Diana had started at Winterpole around the same time and studied together in the junior agent trainee program. For whatever twisted reason, he’d had it out for Diana from the very beginning. Meanwhile, the grown-ups loved everything Benjamin did, which only made it worse.

  “If you two are done bickering,” Mister Snow interrupted, “I will explain the purpose of our visit to this reformed garbage patch.”

  He guided Diana and Benjamin past complicated machinery and agents hard at work. There were slush-makers, cave-burrowing drills, paperwork-sorting devices, all sorts of things.

  Mister Snow adjusted his tie as they walked. “You both well understand the unique challenge this new landmass provides. Winterpole has jurisdiction over the seven continents, but not this eighth one. There are statutes in place to keep people from moving to the Lane settlement, but that is only phase one of Winterpole’s master plan. We can’t legislate private settlements on the continent, but we can legislate our own. And so here we are! Welcome to the Nation of Winterpole.”

  “Nation of Winterpole?” Diana asked in disbelief.

  “That’s right! Our very own country, here on the eighth continent. Think of all the paperwork a whole country can store. Think how orderly our citizens will behave. We will uphold the ideals of our great agency, flex our bureaucratic muscles, and let our influence stretch across the entire landmass.”

  “It sounds like a brilliant plan,” said Benjamin, sucking up.

  “In the Nation of Winterpole, our statutes are once again in effect. The Director is very eager to track our progress. To make sure establishment of our new society goes smoothly, I have requested the services of Winterpole’s top two junior agents.”

  “Who is number one, and who is number two?” Benjamin asked.

  Ignoring him, Mister Snow gave Diana a stern glare. “Consider yourselves conscripted.”

  Benjamin looked happier than a pig at a vegan restaurant. He’d get to boss people around and torment the Lanes—his two favorite things. He immediately ran over to a squad of agents who were operating one of the snow machines and started shouting about how they were spraying snow all wrong.

  Meanwhile, Diana fretted about Mister Snow’s revelation. Winterpole was creating its own country on the eighth continent where they could make their own rules. And Winterpole made so, so many rules. But that wasn’t the scary thing scratching at the back of Diana’s mind. The Lanes created the eighth continent so they could start a new society. Winterpole had stolen that idea—quite easily, in fact. And if Winterpole was smart enough to come up with that plan, Diana worried who else would try to make their own nation on the eighth continent.

  She thought she had an idea who.

  Evie searched the glade in a panic. There had to be some way to fish 2-Tor out of the pool, but she was afraid to go near the silver liquid. A glob splashed the ground in front of her feet. On contact, the grass shriveled into sheets of soiled plastic. A frightful image crossed her mind of what could happen if the liquid touched her skin.

  She ran to the nearest tree and broke off a low-hanging branch. It came free with a snap. Back in the pool, 2-Tor was screeching. “Help! Help! I feel so stiff. So heavy. What is happening to me?”

  “2-Tor, you need to calm down! Try to stay afloat.” Evie stumbled over the litter, struggling with the heavy branch. She held it over the pool. “Grab onto this, 2-Tor!”

  He raised his wings out of the pool and wrapped them around the branch, pulling it under the surface. Evie strained her muscles, fighting to keep her grip and pull the bird from the pool. As she withdrew the branch, she saw it had become an old aluminum drainpipe that crunched under the strain of 2-Tor’s robot wings.

  Working together with Evie, 2-Tor crawled onto stable ground. Evie dropped the branch/pipe in exhaustion and collapsed in a heap. 2-Tor lay still. The silver liquid drained off his metal shell and pooled around him, forming a bed of trash and garbage bags. The earth morphed into refuse before Evie’s eyes.

  “System recalibrating,” 2-Tor muttered, his eyes blinking. Each piece of his metal body moved, one at a time, reestablishing connections.

  “2-Tor . . .” Evie said breathlessly. “Whatever’s in that pool, it looks like it’s undoing whatever the Eden Compound did to you, back during the Battle of the Garbage Patch.”

  “Affirmative,” 2-Tor chirped. “I feel my artificial intelligence coming back online. Will return to peak efficiency in . . . thirty minutes.”

  “I’m sorry, 2-Tor. I’m so sorry. You loved being a real bird.” Evie sniffed, wiping her eyes. The list of things she had royally messed up continued to grow.

  2-Tor said, “I am not programmed to feel regret, Evelyn. All is well.”

  Evie bit her lip, thinking about her next move. “You’ll be ready to go in thirty minutes. That’s, like, one episode of cartoons. We’ll wait here while you power up, and then we’ll head back home. Dad should take a look at you. Make sure there’s no lasting damage.”

  If 2-Tor heard her, he made no reply. So Evie pulled his limp robot body under the shelter of a nearby tree. After a while (and it certainly seemed longer than an episode of cartoons) the rain stopped, but still 2-Tor showed no sign of recovering. At the bottom of the ravine, surrounded by trash and with nothing but 2-Tor’s silent robot body for company, Evie felt truly alone. Tears crept into her eyes.

  “No salt, nope!” she mumbled, wiping her face. Crying was for babies. She wasn’t about to cry. But everything awful was piling up like the trash that had formed the garbage patch. It wasn’t fair. Evie didn’t know how things could get any worse.

  The high-pitched whine of a hover engine filled the air. Evie looked to the sky for the source of the sound. For a second, she wondered if it was Rick and her parents coming to look for her. But she knew the sounds of the Roost and her father’s hovership the Condor like she knew the voices of old friends. This wasn’t them.

  The vehicle that appeared in the air above her looked like an enormous flower, petals spinning like helicopter blades. The hovership was plastic and pink. She had seen a similar ship once before, but that flyer was not nearly so big.

  Evie’s stomach tightened. Her throat went dry.

  A hatch opened at the bottom of the stem of the flying flower. A number of objects tumbled from the opening to the ground, forming robot-sized craters where they landed. Each object was a pink plastic robot beaver, which scurried to the edge of the glade and gnawed hungrily on the trunks of the different trees. In seconds, a large square of trees had toppled over, and the wood had been chewed to sawdust. Evie watched in disgust at the efficient and destructive way the robo-animals cleared a landing pad. The hovership touched down, and the spinning petals slowed to a stop.

  A perfectly coiffed blond head emerged from the exit hatch at the base of the stem, followed by the elegantly dressed and primly poised figure of the worst person in the world.

  “Vesuvia Piffle,” Evie spat, sounding like she was about to throw up. “What are you doing on my continent?”

  The other ten-year-old squinted. “Peevy Evie Lame. Is that really you? I should have known. I felt a disturbance as my flowercopter was landing. A terrible dresser and frightful bore is close by. Beware. Beware!”

  “Yeah,” Evie retorted. “Beware the girl who always ruins your plans. What have you been failing miserably at lately?”

  Vesuvia rubbed her temples. “Ugh, stop it, you whiskered worm. You’re going to give me wrinkles.”

  Evie rose to her feet, glaring defiantly at her adversary. “What are you doing here anyway, Vesuvia? Aren’t you tired of me ruining your plans all the time? I’ll do it again. Heck, I’ll do it right now.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Vesuvia sneered
. “You and who? Your little bird brain over there?”

  Behind Evie, 2-Tor was flat on his back. His robo-eyes blinked. “Warning. Hazard detected. Status: very rude.”

  “Yeah,” Evie said awkwardly. “Me and him. I’m not afraid of your little pink chipmunks or whatever.”

  “My chipmunks?” Vesuvia cackled like a wicked witch. “Oh, Peevy Evie, the Piffle Pink Patrol has had a few upgrades since you last met them.”

  Two massive robo-gorillas lumbered out of the flower-copter. Vesuvia leaned casually against one of the mechanical brutes, looking like a doll one of them could grasp in a fist.

  “Oh, hello, my sweet monkeys,” she purred. “Seize the ugly girl and her never-shut-uppy bird. Ooooh, Mommy will just love that I captured one of those losers copying our idea to start a new country on the eighth continent.”

  “Your idea?!” Evie fumed with rage, but before she could protest further, the robo-gorillas were charging her and 2-Tor. The robot’s battery was too low to fight. Evie wasn’t fast enough. And she couldn’t leave 2-Tor anyway.

  “Don’t worry, Evie,” Vesuvia soothed mockingly as the gorillas dragged her aboard the flowercopter. “Being my prisoner won’t be all bad. You’re going to just love New Miami.”

  Vesuvia eased gracefully into the cushioned captain’s chair of her flowercopter. Through the main viewport, a giant windshield that stretched from one end of the bridge to the other, she could watch the eighth continent pass below.

  She flipped open the control panel built into her armrest and pushed the very big pink button, which was next to two medium-sized pink buttons and one little pink button. “Didi! I need you!” Vesuvia shrieked.

  A plate slid open in the ceiling, and a basketball-sized D-2 mechanical eye came down, attached to a long robotic arm. The eye was hot pink, of course. A haughty female voice came out of the voice box on top of the eye. “My sonic sensors are quite receptive, Vesuvia. There’s no reason to scream like a teakettle every time you need something. Now, how may I be of service to you?”