by Matt London
“What are you two looking at?” Evie asked, trying to rub a beet juice stain off her finger. The boys were pointing at little blobs on the screen and whispering.
Sprout looked up. “Rick’s showing me the plan for the eighth continent settlement.”
“The plan?” Evie scowled. “I didn’t realize we had agreed on a plan.”
Rick smiled innocently. That look made Evie want to throw a roasted beet at him. “I showed him my rendering of the layout. I just added a hydroponic lab. That’ll help us grow fresh produce until we can conduct tests to determine how arable the land is. You see, with hydroponics, you grow plants using mineral nutrient solutions, so you don’t need to use soil.”
“It’s the best darn way to grow plants I’ve ever seen!” Sprout added.
“I know what hydroponics are,” Evie said. “But Sprout, we’re not building a science dictatorship like Rick wants.”
Rick glared. “It’s not a dictatorship. The governing body of Scitopia will be a small group of carefully vetted and selected Nobel Prize winners, geniuses, and entrepreneurs.”
“So like your daddy, and maybe the Prof, too!” Sprout nodded his approval of this decision.
Evie was unimpressed. “And who’s gonna select this small group of egos with zero oversight and total authority? You, Rick? That’s a dictatorship! And furthermore, Scitopia? What kind of ridiculous name for a continent is that?”
“An awesome one,” Rick said. “And I’m not a dictator. How can you say that? I’m a good person with good intentions. I’ll make everyone who lives on the eighth continent happy. I’ll only make decisions that will do what’s best for them.”
“You mean what you think is best for them, Your Highness.”
Rick scowled. Sprout snorted.
“The eighth continent should be a democracy. It’s fair. Everyone gets a vote in how the continent operates.” As Evie spoke she glanced at her poor bird tutor, still encased in ice. “The public can decide where to live, how to eat, and what kind of scientific research they want to do.”
“Well what if they want to pursue scientific research that doesn’t interest us?”
“That’s fine. It’s their right to disagree.”
“What if the first thing they vote for is forfeiting Dad to Winterpole? What if they want to research bombs like Mastercorp does?”
“What?” Evie could hear her voice growing more frustrated. “That goes totally against our philosophy for creating the eighth continent. They can’t do that!”
“Sure they can.” Rick had that stupid grin on his face again, the one he had when he was winning. “If it’s a democracy, then they can do whatever they want.”
“Well then I’ll make sure no one with dumb ideas like that is allowed to live on the eighth continent.”
“Oh ho ho! And who decides who can come and who can’t, Evie? You?”
She realized he totally had her. Darn it. She hated when he did that.
Rick went on. “So now you have complete control of immigration to the eighth continent and you won’t let anyone in unless they do what you say.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Why not?” Rick smiled. “I think it sounds like a great idea.”
Sprout stood up to stretch his legs. “Y’all’re carrying on like two cats in a sack. I say y’all should find some common ground. I sure wouldn’t bicker so heatedly about philosophy and politics with any of my kin. At least, I wouldn’t if I had any.”
Evie frowned. “We’re sorry, Sprout. We didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Yeah,” Rick agreed.
“Aw, y’all’re fine.” Sprout approached the block of ice, which had shrunk considerably. The feathered tips of 2-Tor’s wings were sticking out of the ice cube. Sprout picked up a burning log from the fire, careful not to touch the part of it that was hot. He held it in front of 2-Tor, close, so the orange flame licked the glassy surface.
Rick and Evie grabbed torches and joined Sprout, waving the torches over the ice and watching as it melted away. As they worked, they heard a hissing sound almost like a whistle. “What’s that noise?” Rick asked, straining to hear the sound.
“I reckon it’s this over here.” Sprout pointed. The tip of 2-Tor’s black beak had emerged from the quickly melting ice. The top and bottom of the beak were slightly parted, and he was whistling faintly, breathing, through the gap.
Rick heaved a sigh of relief. “He’s alive!”
The remaining ice around 2-Tor’s head continued to melt away. The kids leaned in close, listening to 2-Tor’s hoarse whisper. “I . . . say . . . I . . . say . . .”
“2-Tor! 2-Tor!” Evie touched his beak. It was as cold as the ice that still encased the rest of his body. “Can you hear me?”
“I say! Do not shoot!”
“2-Tor, what are you talking about?” Evie said, her heart pounding. “We’re not going to shoot you.”
“I think he’s having flashbacks of whatever happened to him before he was frozen,” Rick explained. “Hurry, let’s try to finish thawing him out as quickly as possible.”
It took several more minutes to completely extract 2-Tor from the ice. They had to keep building up the fire to prevent the melting water from putting it out. Once 2-Tor was free, they dried him with towels from the Roost and wrapped him in warm blankets. He sat close to the fire, while the kids listened to his story.
“It was a most distressing turn of events. Your father and I were looking into purchasing a very large anchor to root the continent, but that most unpleasant gentleman Mister Snow arrived, with a contingent of his fellow agents.”
“Winterpole,” Rick muttered in disgust.
“They said they were going to take your father. But I do not know where. Back to Geneva? I am uncertain, and you know how irregular it is for me to be described that way.”
“So it’s settled,” Evie said. “We have to break into Winterpole headquarters, again, and rescue Dad. What other choice do we have?”
“But what if he’s not there?” Rick asked. “2-Tor doesn’t know where they took him. Dad could be at the Prison at the Pole for all we know, or any Winterpole facility. Wouldn’t they assume their headquarters is the first place we would look for him? It might be a trap for us. And besides, even if we could magically discover where they were keeping him, what would we do once we got him out? The continent is still on a collision course with Australia. Winterpole would just arrest him again. They still have a presence here. Our only chance is to root the continent, so that we have a place to bring Dad once we free him.”
Evie leaned against 2-Tor, feeling dejected. They’d had a way to root the eighth continent, but she had lost it.
Rick prattled on. “This time tomorrow, the collision will have already happened. Australia is in danger. Preventing its destruction has to be our number-one priority.”
“I reckon I know a way to solve this here predicament,” Sprout said. 2-Tor tilted his head curiously at the young boy. The big crow clearly appreciated the assistance Sprout had provided in the rescue operation. Sprout took a deep breath. “What if we look for a replacement root?”
“But I thought you said that Professor Doran didn’t have any more roots?” Evie asked, her pulse rising. Sprout’s last suggestion sounded too good to be true.
“I said that Professor Doran didn’t have any more. But, remember, the old prof didn’t invent the Amazonian Super Root; he just collected one. He told me that he found it in a rainforest in northern Brazil.”
“Does that mean that we could really locate another?” Rick sounded as shocked as Evie felt.
Sprout smiled. “I’ll need the Roost’s GPS to pinpoint the exact area, but it shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Evie felt her hopes rise. Another scavenger hunt was about to begin—this time for a reclusive root.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE ROOST WAS ON ITS WAY TO THE AMAZON RAINFOREST BEFORE RICK HAD time to pick the sleep gunk out of his eyes. He hunched over the hovership’s controls, struggling to stay awake. Normally, 2-Tor would have been piloting, but the bird’s new organic wings lacked the mechanical dexterity of his old robot body, so he couldn’t grip the flight wheel. Meanwhile Sprout, Evie, and 2-Tor analyzed data from the Roost’s scanners and orbital satellites to find the exact location of the super root.
Suddenly, the big blue blur of rushing water below them became the big green blur of rushing treetops. They reduced speed so Sprout could check the satellite data they had collected and compare it to the rainforest underneath them.
“Hoo-wee!” the little cowboy shouted, startling the others. “I see the grove right down there!”
Rick felt a warm rush of excitement. He didn’t know where they’d be without Sprout. He knew so much about the super root and other plants, not to mention he was pretty good in a rescue operation. Rick hoped Sprout liked him as much as he liked Sprout.
Ahead, there was a round hole in the tree cover about the size of a football stadium. They flew over the hole, soaring past thick tangled vines.
“The Roost’s scanners indicate we have arrived at the correct destination,” 2-Tor observed.
Shaking Rick’s shoulder to get his attention, Evie said, “So let’s go! Bring the Roost in for a landing.”
“Come on, Evie, I can’t! If I try to land the Roost in the glade the hover engines might burn up every super root down there.”
“Rick’s right,” Sprout agreed. “I reckon we should find another place to land and approach the grove on foot.”
“Sheesh!” Evie threw up her hands in frustration. “Nobody ever sides with me.”
They found a small gap in the tree canopy a couple miles south of the grove, taking advantage of natural camouflage provided by the local flora. The leaves and bark of the Roost were different colors from those of the surrounding trees, but a person would have to be highly observant to notice anything amiss.
“Stay focused,” Rick urged them as they packed canteens, backpacks, and other standard adventuring provisions. “If we don’t find the super root and anchor the eighth continent by sunset, it will be too late.”
“Thanks for the words of comfort, Rick,” Evie said sarcastically.
Rick ignored her jab, and the four travelers left the Roost behind. Sprout led the way, hacking through the dense undergrowth.
A stentorian roar filled Rick’s ears—the sound of billions of insects singing their songs. The trees were titans, and their leaves applauded each gust of wind. The howls and screeches of countless animals came from all around him. “Are we safe walking around like this?” he asked.
Sprout slashed through a clump of knotted branches, opening a path. “Sure! Why, any animals out here are more scared of us than we are of them. You just gotta watch out for snakes.”
Rick nodded. “Keep your eyes on the ground. Got it.”
“Naw, they hang out in the trees up there. Once in a while they’ll drop right on your head!”
Rick ducked reflexively. Evie giggled.
2-Tor raised a feathery finger in the air. “If I recall correctly, the most dangerous animal in the Amazon is the mosquito.”
Rubbing his arms worriedly, Rick thought, Don’t eat me, Mister Mosquito. I taste terrible. I swear.
Sprout hacked away at a dense thicket. Evie helped pull away the fallen vines. The boy said, “Here’s an interesting riddle. What animal has destroyed more lives in the Amazon than any other?”
“Hmm . . .” Evie rubbed her chin. “Flesh-eating piranhas?”
Rick said, “I’m going to go with 2-Tor and say mosquitoes.”
“Wrong!” Sprout sliced through the wall of roots, exposing a clearing. “The answer is—”
“Fore!”
A high-speed white projectile flew past them, nearly knocking Sprout’s head off. The golf ball bounced across the ground and rolled into a sand trap.
Golf ball? Sand trap? Rick slapped his cheek a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
Pristine buzz-cut grass stretched before them. To their left was a golf green, complete with a skinny flag sticking out of the hole. In the distance, beyond the golf course, there was an expanse of pastel buildings, pinks and turquoises and yellows, tall hotels and condominiums. At the center of it all was a gray spire, like the tower of a medieval castle. The whole area, castle included, was surrounded by the forested wall of the Amazon jungle.
Rick was about to ask, What is this place? when he heard: “Dagnabbit! Them kids got in the way of my shot! I’m taking a mulligan.”
“You already took three mulligans, Scotty. You can’t take another one.”
“Hah? Herb, if those kids blocked your shot, you’d make us go back to the front nine and give me a five-stroke penalty.”
Rick, Evie, and Sprout watched as two old men marched up the fairway to the green. The first was a short bald man in a flannel shirt and navy suspenders who fanned himself with a scottish flat cap, which seemed much too hot to wear in the sweltering jungle. The other was a big man with an enormous gut, a shock of white hair, and a nose like a stoplight. His trousers were so brightly colored that they hurt Rick’s eyes. Following behind the two men were two bags of golf clubs on robotic plastic pink chicken legs. The robo-bags walked close behind their owners.
“Hey, Scotty, you know I think these kids might’ve come out of the jungle!”
“The jungle? That’s crazy. Hey, you kids, did you come out of the jungle?”
The Lane siblings stared stupidly at the two old men. Sprout grinned, looking like he was getting a kick out of the whole thing.
Herb shook his golf club at them. “Hey, you kids! Do I have to bop you with my five-iron? Wake up!”
“Wha . . . what is this place?” Rick asked.
“This place? Are you kidding?” Herb snorted in offense. “Why, this is New Boca!”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “New . . . Boca?”
“Yeah. You know. Like Boca Raton. What are you, deaf?”
“Hah?” Scotty put a hand to the side of his head.
Herb shouted in Scotty’s ear. “I said they’re deaf, Scotty. The kids are deaf.”
Scotty adjusted his hearing aid. “The kid’s a chef? Good, the food here is terrible.”
The white-haired man started to grimace but then his robo-bag nudged him. He pulled out a putter and stepped onto the green. He pointed with his club at the town beyond the golf course. “You gotta be over sixty-five to live in New Boca, but I’m sure you can find water and supplies down in the shopping district. Now shoo, rug rats. We gotta finish our game or I’ll miss the early-bird special.”
“Hah? The dirty nerd vessel?”
“Scotty, that doesn’t even make any sense. Meanwhile your golf bag looks like it’s about to lay an egg. Grab your sand wedge and take your shot.”
“The chef kid’s making a sandwich? Good, I’m hungry.”
“Uh, I think we’re going to get going,” Rick said. But the two men just continued bickering and so the bird, the cowboy, and the brother and sister tiptoed away from the putting green and into New Boca.
The streets smelled of fresh asphalt and the buildings looked brand new, as if the whole thing had sprung up overnight. Highly chlorinated fountains stood smack in the middle of each intersection, shooting water into the air. Old ladies roamed in packs, power-walking in nylon tracksuits that matched the pastel buildings around them.
A group of serving-bots rolled past pushing food carts. Rick thought about snatching some food off the carts. He was starving. But one look at the food—tuna noodle casserole, Metamucil, and big glass candy dishes filled with a variety of prescription medications—changed his mind.
The storefronts they passed were similarly
themed. Here was the yarn store. There was the pet store (all it sold was cat food and kitty litter). At the end of the road was a store where you could rent black-and-white movies on video cassette.
“This place is weird,” Sprout observed.
“Yeah, I know,” Rick replied. “It’s almost like it fell from the sky.”
“Look!” Evie yelled, pointing as she ran over to a big wooden sign. Letters had been carved and then painted pink and gold. It read: “Welcome to NEW BOCA . . . A development of the Condo Corporation.”
“Condo Corp? Oh man!” Rick adjusted his glasses in irritation. “What is up with those people? And why are they so obsessed with Florida?”
“I can’t even reckon how many trees they must have chopped down to build this place.” Sprout kicked the sidewalk.
2-Tor squawked. “According to my calculations, more than sixty thousand flowering plants and trees were cut down to make room for this community.”
Rick took out his pocket tablet and examined the digital map. “The data I’ve gathered here says the glade with the super root is on the other side of New Boca.”
Evie stomped her foot. “If Condo Corp messed with the super root, I am gonna mess with them. Wha-bam!”
“Vesuvia is in prison,” Rick said. “So who is running Condo Corp now?”
“I dunno,” Evie replied, “but first things first: How do we get to the super root?”
“We could try to skirt around the perimeter of the town,” Rick suggested. “Stick to less-densely populated areas.”
A deep, harsh growl from behind them interrupted this line of thought. Rick turned to see a nine-foot-tall pink plastic gorilla looming. He wore a rather snazzy tuxedo, custom-fitted to his Buick-sized frame, and carried a dainty plate piled high with half-sour pickles.
“Oh!” Evie yelped, startled by his arrival. “Hello. Nice monkey.”
The robot gorilla roared. He dropped the pickles and raised his hands, which morphed into whirling circular saws before their eyes. The blades screamed like anguished goats.
“Not nice monkey! Not nice monkey!” Evie took off down the street.
