Welcome to the Jungle

by Matt London

  “I appreciate that, ma’am,” the Polar Bear said.

  “Good. You should have the verdict in twelve to eighteen months.”

  “Months? Without pay?”

  Diana’s mother left the cell in a flurry. “Come along, Mister Snow. Trainees, we’re going.”

  The others followed in Mrs. Maple’s wake. The Polar Bear stayed behind, watching them go. He looked so miserable Diana couldn’t help feeling bad for him, even if he had been terrible to her back in the cell.

  As they walked the halls, headed to the landing pad on the roof, Benjamin stopped Diana, hissing like a snake. “Let’s get one thing straight, Maple. I own you now. I’ve been monitoring your Winterpole communication line for weeks. I know you spoke to your old pal Vesuvia on the phone.”

  Diana shoved him hard with both hands. He snorted in amusement. “I didn’t help her escape!” she said. “I didn’t want her to escape.”

  “Oh. Oh dear.” For a second Benjamin looked regretful, but then his face morphed back into its sinister leer. “You must have me confused with someone who gives two ice cubes about the truth. I have evidence you spoke to her. That’s all I need to convince everyone else here that you lied to superior Winterpole officers—and your own mother. As the daughter of the Secretary of Enforcement, you must know what the penalty is for lying.”

  “What do you care?”

  “Care? Can’t I want to defend the ideals of our noble organization? No, no. Of course that’s silly. But you’ve had everything handed to you, and you don’t deserve it. So now we both know who the better agent is. Cross me again, and you’re finished.”

  He shoved her back, knocking her so hard in the chest that it dropped her to the cold floor. She clutched herself, gasping. Benjamin spun on his toes and hurried after the grown-up agents.

  Diana’s head was spinning. Benjamin could blab at any time, and then she’d be finished. Not just with Winterpole, but with her Mom too. She figured she might as well lock herself in one of these cells right now. She’d be back soon enough.

  Looking up at the cell door in front of her, she saw the number. Z-99.

  George Lane.

  She crawled over to the door and pulled herself up. The small window in the door was blurry with frost. She breathed on the glass and wiped it clear.

  The poor man was still in there, tied to the chair, fish falling on his head twice a minute. He looked as miserable as Diana felt. But there was nothing she could do for him.

  Up on the landing pad, Mister Snow and Benjamin were already aboard their hovership. Diana’s mother was waiting. “What took so long?”

  “Nothing,” Diana said. “Just had to catch my breath.”

  “We need to talk,” her mother replied.

  “Can we do it on the ship? I’m tired and it’s freezing out here.”

  “No we cannot. Diana, you will not be returning to Geneva. You will be staying here.”

  “I told you I had nothing to do with Vesuvia’s escape!”

  Her mother shook her head. “This isn’t about that. I’m . . . giving you a reward, for all your hard work. I need you to continue investigating the breakout. You can’t do that if you’re not at the Prison at the Pole. Get to the bottom of it. You can return to Winterpole once you’ve filed a full ten-thousand-page report.”

  “Ten thousand! By myself?”

  “Some agents would be thankful to have their superior officer give them such an important assignment.”

  An important punishment is more like it, Diana thought. Her faith in Winterpole was unraveling at an alarming speed. The bureaucracy and the rules always took top billing, with only an occasional guest appearance by the ideals Diana held dear. Protect the environment, defend endangered animals, save the earth—Winterpole never did any of that stuff. Instead, they tracked down people who didn’t get permission slips for arbitrary junk and slammed them with exorbitant penalties. Even their own agents weren’t immune, as Diana had just discovered.

  Making no effort to embrace her daughter, Mrs. Maple said, “Good luck with your mission. I look forward to your paperwork.”

  Diana was still standing on the landing pad, alone and in disbelief, when the hovership took off and flew home.

  THE FIRST STOP ON GRANDMA CONDOLINI’S SHOPPING SPREE WAS TOTALLY SANE PETE’S USED Weapon Dealership—Why Would You Think Pete Was Anything but Sane?, a depot in Arizona for cannons, contraptions, and other calamitous inventions. Vesuvia had no interest in setting a dainty toe on the property, which featured not three, but four lawn flamingoes, and innumerable garden gnomes with hats in seven distinct colors. It was so tacky, Vesuvia nearly gagged.

  Totally Sane Pete and several of his assistants emerged from the depot in Granny’s wake. The old woman had a look of pure satisfaction on her face. Vesuvia could see why. The assistants each pushed large carts filled with hammer cannons, chainsaw launchers, and other destructive weapons.

  “Back to the Big Whale, Susu! We’re on to our next destination.” Granny knew better than to waltz into Winterpole territory unprepared. That was a strategy guaranteed to land Vesuvia back at the Prison at the Pole. Instead, they flew around the globe, gathering tanks, attack robots, stylish boots, and other supplies from several of Granny’s old friends—terrorists, warlords, military dictators, and an old crooner who stank of cigars and whose yellow teeth seemed to take up the entirety of his face.

  It was oddly amusing to meet so many bizarre people, but this wasn’t exactly the sort of shopping spree Vesuvia had in mind, so she was relieved when Granny said, “All right, I think we have everything. Now, to the eighth continent!”

  Several hours later, Vesuvia and her grandmother had circled the globe. The eighth continent was at last visible through the front viewport of the Big Whale. Vesuvia bubbled with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to make the continent her own.

  Granny grabbed the megaphone she used to communicate with the crew and raised it to her lips. “Deploy the Piffle Pink Patrol!”

  Pink robo-birds spilled from the hangar on the ship’s underbelly. They looked pretty beat up from their last encounter with the Lanes, but Granny gave no sign to indicate she noticed or cared. “Excellent, excellent!” she cheered. “Good to see the patrol is operating at top efficiency.”

  Vesuvia mewed as she waved at the robots swooping past the window. “Pinky! Blinky! Peppercorn! Chompedo! Look at you fly!”

  Granny barked into her megaphone. “Begin the bombardment!”

  The Piffle Pink Patrol turned en masse and bombed the continent. Winterpole agents ran for cover. The robots pelted the ground with napalm, hydrochloric acid, and a mixture of orange juice and 2-percent milk.

  “Milk?” Vesuvia asked.

  “Not just regular milk, also chocolate milk. And strawberry for you, of course. Speaking of which”—Granny cranked up the volume on her megaphone—“WILL SOMEONE GET MY GRANDDAUGHTER SOME STRAW-BERRY MILK!? Sigh. You see, Susu, the experimental bombardment is all part of my master plan.”

  “And what plan is that?” Vesuvia asked, accepting a glass of pink milk from a passing server-bot.

  “Why, destroying the eighth continent, of course.”

  Vesuvia choked in response. Twin streams of strawberry milk shot from her nostrils. “Destroy it?! Have all those perms damaged your wrinkled old brain? What about New Miami?”

  Granny clutched her chest wistfully. “Ah, to be young and narrow-minded again.”

  “Excuse me? Narrow-minded?”

  “Don’t be such a daft pineapple, Susu. There are more important things than New Miami.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “Condo Corp has formed a partnership with another corporation to destroy the eighth continent and discover the chemical formula for the Eden Compound.”

  “Uh, good luck with that. Every last drop of that nasty green Eden Co
mpound was used to turn all the garbage into the land that now makes up the Lanes’ precious continent. We lost most of the Condo Corp fleet, and it ruined my favorite jacket.”

  “I know,” Granny said. “While you were having your holiday at Chez Winterpole, I was handling the insurance settlement. But think carefully now. The Eden Compound isn’t really gone, it has merely changed, forming new earth with the old trash. Now, what if we could undo that transformation?”

  “Then you’d have a bunch of yucky garbage again, and still no New Miami.”

  “You’d have a bunch of yucky garbage AND the Eden Compound. They would separate. And with the Eden Compound in hand, we could figure out how to make more Eden Compound. And then, with more Eden Compound, we could transform garbage dumps anywhere in the world.”

  Vesuvia’s head felt light, but maybe that was some of the strawberry milk sloshing around her skull. “You mean . . . two New Miamis?”

  “Two thousand New Miamis! You see, we’re destroying the eighth continent so we can profit off someone else’s good idea later. In business we call that investing.”

  Two thousand New Miamis. Vesuvia’s mind ran wild with the possibilities. Maybe she didn’t need Diana after all. She could make the world she wanted all by herself, and no one could stop her, not even the stupid Lanes and their dumb bird. There was just one question.

  “Granny, who did Condo Corp form their partnership with? Where’d you get this idea in the first place?”

  Tapping her playfully on the nose, Granny said, “That, my dear, is my little secret! A lady needs her secrets, you know.”

  That would not do at all. She would make sure Granny spilled the gumballs. Vesuvia hated secrets—unless she was the one keeping them.

  ICY MIST SPRAYED RICK’S FACE AS HE DANGLED OVER THE DARK RAVINE. AND THEN HE FELL, tumbling through the open air, letting out a pitiful wail. A circle of rope looped over his chest and pulled tight. The rope jerked him hard, but it stopped his fall.

  Sprout stood at the edge of the cliff, holding the end of his lasso with impressive strength. He had snagged Rick just in time.

  “I gotcha, partner,” Sprout said with a cocky grin.

  “Sprout, you saved me!” Rick cried, glad his glasses hid his tears. He wanted to look strong for his friend and hero.

  Vesuvia and Evie appeared on either side of Sprout and hooked their arms around his shoulders, dressed in loud, outrageous outfits like the girls in Animon Hunters.

  “Come on Sprout,” Evie said. “It’s not worth it. Let’s go.”

  “Why, Evelyn, what a fabulous idea!” Vesuvia walked away from the edge of the cliff. “I’ll make us smoothies.”

  “Aww, shucks,” Sprout said. “I could really go for one a them tasty drinks.”

  “No, Sprout! No!” Rick begged. “You don’t need a smoothie!”

  Sprout frowned. “Sorry, stranger. My friends need me.” He let go of the lasso. Rick dropped.

  “Not a smoothie!” he cried. “Evie, help! Noooo!”

  Evie and Sprout stared into the pit as he fell. Rick tumbled through the air. But as he looked down, he didn’t see water at all, but thick, sticky ink, like the stain in the Pacific. The stain his mother had gone to clean up.

  As the wet blackness swallowed him, Rick awoke with a gasp. He pulled the blanket off from over his head. He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the light in the acorn escape pod. “Did I fall asleep?” he asked.

  From the pilot’s seat, 2-Tor nodded. “Your astute powers of observation continue to impress, young Richard. What were you dreaming about?”

  Rick blushed. “You could tell I was dreaming?”

  “I may no longer possess my sophisticated life-monitoring sensors, but I am no dodo, either. I heard you say your sister’s name, and that boy’s, Sprout. I also heard you articulate something about smoothies, but I assumed that was less important.”

  Rick felt around for his glasses. “I don’t know, 2-Tor. I guess . . . Sprout was my friend, you know? Evie stole him away from me. And she’s always putting down my ideas. She never seems to care that I put a lot of thought into making decisions . . . unlike her.”

  “Richard! It is time for a quiz.”

  “Ugh, not now, 2-Tor.” Rick picked up the blanket and pillow but didn’t see his glasses anywhere. It was one of the cruel ironies of life that you needed your glasses to find your glasses.

  2-Tor waggled a feather. “Ah, ah, ah. Yes now. Question one: Why do you think Evelyn is so impulsive?”

  “I don’t know, 2-Tor.”

  “Have you ever stopped to think maybe it is because you are so meticulous?”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense!”

  “It most certainly does make sense. You and Evelyn are both remarkably bright, but you think things through in a way few humans can. You are also both highly competitive. But Evie cannot compete with you in a data-centric way. So she blazes her own trail, to borrow an idiom from your Texan friend.”

  “You’re saying Evie acts crazy on purpose.”

  “No, no, no! I am saying you think in different ways, neither better than the other. You should give her more credit, Richard. She often wonders why you do not take her ideas seriously.”

  “Because her ideas are dumb, 2-Tor.”

  The big crow gave him a look that, even on his birdy face, clearly said, Do you see my point?

  At last Rick found his glasses hanging from the collar of his shirt. He put them on and saw the world much clearer.

  The pilot’s console beeped. “Oh!” 2-Tor said. “We are coming up on the stain.”

  An expanse of dark water bruised the ocean surface. The inky stain undulated with the waves. It was huge—bigger than a Hawaiian island. A number of Cleanaspot boats floated along the edge of the stain, their hulls black with the ink. The boats sprayed the stain with Mom’s special eco-friendly cleaning solution, but the concoction seemed to be having no visible effect.

  On the far side of the stain floated a sea vessel Rick had never seen before—a football-stadium-sized vial of ink. “2-Tor, whose ship is that?”

  “That is an Ink-A-Spot transport vessel.”

  “Ink-A-Spot? Hmm . . . that seems convenient.”

  “Yes, it makes me moult to think that they accused your mother and Cleanaspot of creating the stain as a way to make a hefty profit from the cleanup job. To think that your mother would intentionally damage the oceans and then frame Ink-A-Spot . . . why, it’s just preposterous! But what’s your point, Richard?”

  “Well, what does Ink-A-Spot do when they’re not accusing my mother of crimes she didn’t commit?”

  “They carry ink, oil, and other hazardous materials across the ocean.”

  “So, in other words, there’s basically no doubt that they’re the ones who made the stain in the first place, right?”

  “You are wise as an owl and sharp as a talon, my dear boy!”

  “In that case,” said Rick, “let’s go get those guys.” Using the sensors in the escape pod, Rick detected the homing beacon in his mother’s phone. Sure enough, the signal was coming from the Ink-A-Spot ship. 2-Tor piloted the escape pod over to the ship and landed in one of its hangars.

  “This place is busy,” Rick remarked as he climbed out of the cramped escape pod. Everywhere he looked mechanics and robots scurried about the hangar deck, prepping hoverships for flight.

  “They must be trying to hide their guilt by cleaning up the stain themselves,” 2-Tor said. “After all, contaminating the oceans really could damage one’s reputation.”

  A woman with a brown ponytail hurried over to Rick and 2-Tor. She wore spotless overalls with an insignia that read “Crew Chief.” “Hey! You can’t park that here. This is a restricted area.” She pointed at 2-Tor. “And take that mask off. What do you think this is, Halloween?”

  It was so hard f
or most people to believe that 2-Tor was actually a giant talking crow that they generally assumed what to them was the most logical explanation.

  Rick patted 2-Tor on the wing. “My friend here was in a costume contest. There was a bit of a glitch. We accidentally sewed him into the bird suit.”

  “Bird suit!” 2-Tor squawked, offended. “I say.”

  “Wow!” the crew chief said. “Those animatronics are pretty cool.”

  “Thank you,” Rick said. “Um . . . my father designed them? Speaking of my family, I’m trying to find my mother. Melinda Lane. Have you seen her?”

  “The Cleanaspot woman? Oh kid, you better follow me.” She called to a group of mechanics on break. “Davis! Take over. I’ll be right back. Let’s go, kid.”

  The crew chief led Rick through the corridors of the Ink-A-Spot ship. Everything was immaculate. Not a single speck of dirt or smudge of grime was anywhere to be seen. Strange. He had expected it to be, well, inkier. The place reminded him of the Cleanaspot offices, and the visits he used to take there with his mother after preschool. Those trips were some of his fondest memories with his mother. She had always been there for him. He needed her now more than ever.

  They reached an entrance to a restricted area, which at first Rick thought had no door—a rather strange way to enter a restricted area. But in fact there was a glass partition. It was just polished so clearly it was practically invisible. The glass slid aside as they entered.

  Two glass desks acted as sentries on either side of this entry room. Behind the desks the secretaries wore long white robes and powdered wigs. A quartet of Winterpole agents in dark suits formed a line at the other end of the entry room.

  Rick wanted to run, but where could he go? Winterpole must have known it was him and Evie who broke Vesuvia out of the Prison at the Pole. If they identified him, he’d be going back there real soon.