by Matt London
Rick thought this was the best idea she’d had in a while. He ran after her. A group of old ladies saw the stampeding robo-gorilla and power-walked for cover.
At the end of the road Rick, Evie, Sprout, and 2-Tor darted into a corner boutique. Jeweled necklaces were mounted on the walls. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. And little crystal animals stood proudly in display cases, their gem eyes sparkling.
The robo-gorilla sliced the door in half and forced his way inside, his broad shoulders knocking out big chunks of the doorframe and wall.
“You know, I know the head of Condo Corp, and she’s not gonna be too happy to find out that you ruined one of her precious developments,” Evie taunted, clearly hoping that the gorilla would be able to see reason.
He didn’t.
Instead, he smashed the figurines into glitter, sent the necklaces flying off the walls, and tore a chandelier free of its mounting.
“Guess he hasn’t met Vesuvia, huh?” Evie mused.
Rick didn’t have a chance to mention that he wondered if perhaps Vesuvia had been the one to send the gorilla in the first place—it was pink after all—because before he knew it, the three of them burst through the exit door at the back of the store and stopped short.
A woman stood before them. She was young but hard-featured. Over her Kevlar bulletproof vest and black commando pants she wore a wrinkly gray cloak, which on closer inspection Rick realized was made out of the hide of an elephant. She was holding a bowzooka, a dangerous weapon that was a mix between a crossbow and a shotgun.
Rick had seen people like this before. A poacher. A kind of hunter who shot and collected rare animals illegally. But behind them, the gorilla was sawing through the exit door. This poacher was their only hope.
“Please, Miss,” Rick begged the silent woman. “You’ve gotta help us. This robot’s after us. It’s trying to chop us up.”
She looked at the three children before her. The robot behind them was more than halfway through the door. Her gaze shifted to the tall black crow standing upright before them.
Without a word, she fired her bowzooka.
Dozens of tranquilizer darts flew from the bow in a spray, each needle taking the shape of a mosquito. Several caught 2-Tor in the breast and side as he instinctively shielded Evie with his wing. Sprout dropped to the ground. Evie cried, “Hey, don’t shyaaarrrgh . . .” as another blast caught her with a couple darts. She and 2-Tor fell to the floor and were still.
Something pinched Rick’s arm. He looked down and saw one of the darts embedded in his shoulder. He pulled it out and stared at it. A second later it became clear that while the dart was staying the same distance away, fresh black asphalt was getting closer. He landed hard on his face.
Rick rolled over to see Sprout leap from the ground like a tiger from the brush. He knocked the bowzooka up, sending a blast of darts into the air. The woman growled and Sprout ripped the bowzooka from her hands. He swung it, attempting to hit her in the face, but she was too quick. She leaned back, let the butt of the weapon swish by, and then lunged at Sprout, catching him with an elbow to the jaw.
Dazed, Sprout stumbled backward. She grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the chest. His wind gone, Sprout dropped to his knees.
The woman stripped the bowzooka from his loose grip and struck him with it in the back of the head. Sprout collapsed in a heap, unconscious.
Rick wanted to get up. To help. To fight. But he couldn’t. His whole body was numb. His vision was dark and fuzzy. Unconsciousness sounded like the next-best idea.
EVIE WOKE TO A HEADACHE LIKE SOMEONE HAD FORCE-FED HER TEN GALLONS OF ICE CREAM AND only now was the brain freeze catching up with her. She was lying on her back, staring up at a ceiling brightly painted to look like a summer sky, with puffy white clouds and a smiling yellow sun. The sky was moving—no, wait—Evie was moving.
She looked around as her vision cleared. She was sitting in a little inflatable boat shaped like a pink hippopotamus. The boat floated on an indoor lake that looked like it had been built inside a baby’s playroom, complete with paintings of castles and fields. Two other hippo boats floated nearby. Evie paddled over to one with her hands. The water was as warm as a bath.
She nudged the boat’s passenger. “Sprout. Sprout, hey. Wake up.”
The boy stirred, rubbing his forehead. “Oof. I feel like some varmint kicked up a fire ant mound inside my brain.”
“Ditto,” Evie said. “Rick! You awake?”
“Barely,” he muttered, his red hair appearing over the rump of the third hippo boat. “Where’s 2-Tor?”
Sprout shrugged. “I reckon he’s asking the same thing about us.”
“I’m asking the same thing about us!” Evie said.
Sprout paddled toward the exit, where an arched hallway led off from the playroom. The water flowed down the passage in a stream. “I ain’t sure what this place is, but I’d bet you dollars to durians if we go this way we’ll find out.”
Rick and Evie followed him in their inflatable boats, the water current pulling them in the very direction they wanted to travel.
Evie sighed at the memory of their bigger mission. “We’re sort of like the eighth continent, you know? Getting pulled this way and that.”
“Yeah, but at least we’re not about to crash into Australia,” Rick reminded her. “Speaking of which—” He pulled out his pocket tablet and inspected the waterproof device. “We have less than a day left to stop the two continents from colliding.”
Evie gulped. She couldn’t believe that the countdown was more than half over. If only she hadn’t lost the first super root, they’d have anchored the continent by now and rescued their parents.
The sound of blaring music interrupted Evie’s thoughts. “It’s like the soundtrack to an old Hollywood musical,” she muttered to herself, expecting to see dozens of long-legged dancers in diamond-encrusted swim caps forming kaleidoscopic designs in the water. But as they were propelled into yet another indoor lake all she saw was more inflatable animals—a crocodile here, a stingray there—all pink, and without occupants. Was there no one else in this puffy pastel heaven?
“I say, one more meager handful. It is all I ask.”
“That sounds like 2-Tor!” Evie said.
The voice grew louder. “Evelyn? Is that you? Over here!”
Evie slipped out of her boat and waded to the edge of the lake. The ground, the walls, everything in this place had the give of an inflatable bouncy castle. Maybe it was an inflatable bouncy castle? Pretty cool. It must have been that tall castle spire she had seen from the golf course, in the middle of New Boca.
She slipped several times climbing out of the lake, but then managed to beach herself, her soggy shoes squeaking on the plastic. Rick and Sprout paddled over to her and climbed out of the water, dripping everywhere.
2-Tor stood a few dozen yards away. He wore a collar around his neck that chained him to an inflatable palm tree. On a pedestal in front of him was a silver tray piled high with wriggling earthworms, and at his side was the woman poacher from the jungle. She turned to look at the three children and tossed a fistful of worms at 2-Tor, who snatched them out of the air with his beak, gobbling them eagerly.
“Good evening, children!” 2-Tor said with a full mouth, a breach of manners he would have reprimanded Evie for, she was certain. “This is Elizabeth, otherwise known as the Big Game Huntress, one of the most violent and devious poachers on the planet. She’s wanted by the authorities in over two dozen nations.”
“A pleasure,” the Big Game Huntress said, sounding like she was trying out to be a contestant in the America’s Most Apathetic competition.
Evie’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “2-Tor, you’re chained up. Why do you sound so happy?”
The bird swallowed loudly. “She is serving me all the worms I can eat. Have you ever had worms, E
velyn? They’re delicious!”
“Let him go,” Rick demanded, wearing his serious face.
The Big Game Huntress gave a nasty cackle. “What? Never. This is the first I’ve ever seen a specimen like this. He’s exquisite. You hear that, bird? Exquisite. He’s the prize of my collection. You can’t have him.”
Evie wasn’t afraid. “We’ll take him by force if we have to.”
“Oh yeah? Force? How’d that work out for your friend last time?”
Sprout rubbed the big knot on the back of his head ruefully.
“Go ahead, kids. Try me. Next time I’ll make you sleep longer. A lot longer. Ya dig?”
A sweet voice interrupted. “Oh, will you leave those little dears alone? Hello, my darlings. Please, have a cookie. Have two of every color.”
A huge plastic flamingo in the lake turned to face them. The back of the flamingo was curved, forming an inflatable throne upon which the littlest old lady Evie had ever seen reclined. She was skinny as a stick. Her bright white hair fluffed above her wrinkly head like the mane of a Pomeranian. She wore bulbous sunglasses and a mottled nylon pink tracksuit that whistled when she moved. In her hand was a mug made from a hollowed-out coconut from which a straw, three wedges of pineapple, and seven paper umbrellas stuck out.
The old lady pushed an inflatable turtle with a plate of cookies on its back across the water. It ran aground near Sprout, who passed the plate to Evie. “Y’all know I ain’t much for sweets.”
“Of course, dear. I understand.” The old lady shooed the Big Game Huntress away. “Elizabeth, be a dear and fetch Mister Sanchez a wheatgrass smoothie. We take our smoothies very seriously around here.”
The Big Game Huntress stalked away with a gray cloud over her, muttering, “I never should have hunted penguins at that Condo Corp ski resort and fallen in with these people. Sure, the money’s good, but give me a break. I’ve punched a tiger—I didn’t take this job to wait on cubs.”
Sprout bowed his head to the old woman. “That’s mighty nice of you, ma’am. I thank you kindly.”
“Oooh! Such nice manners. You were raised right, young man.”
“How do you know our names?” Rick asked suspiciously.
The old woman raised her sunglasses to inspect Rick with her sharp blue eyes. “I’m a very resourceful lady. One must be, to remain the super secret Chairwoman of the Board of the Condo Corporation.”
Evie gawked in disbelief. “Then you’re . . .”
“Venoma Condolini, at your service. But you can call me Grandma. Or Gran. Most of my grandchildren call me Granny.”
Still trying to puzzle it out, Evie said, “Grandma . . . Condolini? Then Vesuvia is your . . .”
Grandma Condolini’s face brightened at the mention of Vesuvia’s name. It was the first time Evie had ever seen anyone do so. “Oh! You know my granddaughter?”
She insisted the children have a seat and eat a cookie, and then another, and then have a nice chat. They pulled off their shoes and socks, rolled up their pant legs, and dangled their feet in the warm water. The Big Game Huntress came back scowling with a tall glass of green sludge, which Sprout slurped joyously.
“You must forgive my chief of security,” Grandma Condolini explained. “She is quite humorless, but very good at her many jobs—catching trespassers, for instance. Yes, don’t bother explaining. We’ve been monitoring you ever since you landed your flying tree in my jungle.”
“Your jungle?” Rick asked confrontationally.
“Why yes,” Grandma Condolini said. “I own all this land. That’s why I chose it as the place to build New Boca.” She held out her arms, as if taking in the enormous bouncy chamber around them. “Isn’t it just grand?”
“This place is weird,” Evie said.
Grandma Condolini pointed a finger at her. “You could do with a lesson in manners from your friend here, little missy. Do not disrespect your elders. Now, what exactly are you doing here?”
“Why should we tell you?” Evie folded her arms over her chest. She wasn’t about to be polite to Vesuvia’s grandmother, of all people.
“Why? Why, because if I don’t know, then how can I help you?”
“Help us?” Rick sounded as confused as Evie for once. “You expect us to believe you would help us? You chopped up the rainforest to build this place. A robot gorilla attacked us in your town. And your granddaughter is a complete psychopath.”
Grandma Condolini nodded. “Ah. Now I see why we have gotten off on the wrong orthopedically corrected foot. How did Vesuvia wrong you?”
“You mean besides tormenting me at school?” Evie asked.
“And kidnapping us?” Rick added.
“And sinking our submarine and killing our friend?” Evie felt a deep pain in her heart remembering the untimely death of her father’s former research partner, Doctor Grant.
With a heavy sigh, Grandma Condolini said, “Oh dear me. That girl. She really is a nightmare.”
Evie stopped short. “She . . . what?”
“It pains me to admit it, but Vesuvia has always been a rotten strawberry, ever since she was little. Maybe it’s the Piffle in her. Condolini women have always possessed impeccable manners. For a long time Vesuvia’s behavior wasn’t so bad, until last year when her mother disappeared. You see, I was retiring, to rest after so many years in the big chair, even bigger than my flamingo lounger, and to focus on my pet project, New Boca Raton.
“My daughter, Viola, had been groomed since birth to take over for me when the time came. You see, a Condolini woman must run Condo Corp. That is the way it has always been. That is the way it must be. And then one day, my daughter vanished. I had hoped that once she was in control of the company, my daughter would raise Vesuvia to be better behaved, to be like one of us, so that one day she too could claim the crown of Condo Corp. But when Viola disappeared, I had no other choice. A Condolini woman must run Condo Corp. And so I made my granddaughter the super-secret CEO. Now, I know Vesuvia is . . .”
“Cruel?” Evie offered.
“Evil?” Rick suggested.
“Pure evil?” Evie amended.
Grandma Condolini sighed. “But Condolini women have served the ideals of our family for generations. When the big earthquake flattened San Francisco in 1906, who made houses on the cheap? Us. After the blitzkrieg, who rebuilt London? We did. When the sea level rose and drowned Venice, who built New Lido pro bono so that every refugee had a place to stay for free? That wasn’t Lane Industries, children. That was me.”
“Some would call that profiteering,” Evie said.
The old woman glared. “Some would not be the millions of people who wouldn’t have roofs over their heads if not for Condo Corp. We intend to house the whole human race one day. No one is pure evil, children. I suggest you do not harbor that assumption.”
Evie looked into her brother’s eyes. Everything he wanted to say was written all over his face, as clearly as the time he fell asleep watching TV and she took a black permanent marker and actually wrote all over his face. He wanted to believe her story, even if he didn’t. He wanted to trust Grandma Condolini, even if he couldn’t. They needed her help if they were going to get the super root.
Evie, for one, wasn’t buying what Grandma was selling. Sure, she seemed like a sweet old lady, but she was the mother brain of Condo Corp. How sweet could she be?
Rick told Grandma Condolini the story of how Vesuvia’s Piffle Pink Patrol attacked the eighth continent and knocked it onto a collision course with Australia. He described the super root they needed to anchor the continent, and the location of the glade where it grew on Condo Corp’s property.
Grandma Condolini listened carefully to everything he said and at last nodded. “Children, it is my sincerest pleasure to help you. Vesuvia must have programmed her robots to attack you if she was out of contact for a given amount of time. Just dreadfu
l. Well, I hope by giving you access to this super root, it can go a little way toward making up for all the trouble my granddaughter has caused you.”
Sprout grinned. “I reckon that’s the best news we’ve heard all day!”
“But . . .” Grandma Condolini said.
There was always a but.
“But if I am going to give you a plant from my private property, I am going to need you to give me something in return. Something very precious.”
Evie looked over at 2-Tor, who was still chained to the fake palm tree, chowing down on earthworms. “You can’t keep 2-Tor.”
“No, not him!” Grandma Condolini said. “You see, my granddaughter may be evil, but she is still my granddaughter.”
A look of clarity, followed by a look of terror, passed over Rick’s face. “Oh no. Not that. Anything but that.”
Grandma Condolini smiled her sweetest grandmother smile. “That’s right. Before you can get the root, I’m going to need you to rescue Vesuvia from the Prison at the Pole.”
TWO LONG LINES OF EMPLOYEES TRAILED THROUGH THE CORRIDORS OF WINTERPOLE Headquarters. In the line on the left, people were waiting to enter the Winterpole auditorium, where the evening’s entertainment was about to begin. In the line on the right, employees waited to receive their permission slips to stand in the line on the left. At her mother’s insistence, Diana had gotten in the first line early. Now, permission slip in hand, she was ushered into the auditorium.
Inside, she walked down the center aisle, past rows of red velvet seats. A curtain hung over the screen at the front of the large room. The auditorium was an old movie theater that evidently had not been renovated since the silent era. Murals of angels sounding trumpets, while standing in line for craft services, adorned the walls. Diana slumped into a chair and tried to relax. Her feelings on every eighth continent–related thing were so muddled, they were weighing her down. Winterpole had been acting like a bully, as bad as Vesuvia, and Diana’s mom was a part of it. The Lanes were the victims, as weird as that sounded.
