Nikolas and Company: The Merman and The Moon Forgotten (3 page)

An unearthly sound came from
deep within Rocky. It proved to be a laugh. “Hah, hah, haaaaah!”
Her finger pointed at Tim. “
Tim’s
the big brother! Oh, that’s funny! He’s like your
genetic fart.”

The hecklers roared with that
one.

“
Shut your drain!” Nick
gritted.

Rocky’s mouth clapped shut, sucking up
the heckler’s laughs with it. Her horse-like legs pushed her
forward.

Nick tried to step around her, but she
shadowed him. “Out of the way, Rocky.”

Nick’s eyes crept skyward and he didn’t
like what he saw. Either Rocky’s hair hadn’t been combed for
months, or the brush had completely given up, taking an easier job
as a street scrubber. Her right piggly hand hung clenched, while
her other hand held an ice cream cone, which left her mouth and
fingers caked in brownish white cream. From her nose came an
inordinate amount of hair, especially for a fourteen-year-old. In
fact, she just had an inordinate amount of facial hair altogether.
Nick sighed.

I really need to get off
this planet.

A spark leapt from the black bracelet
around Rocky’s wrist. The refugee camps couldn’t afford to lose
track of a refugee, as it would have to answer to BioFarms:
producer, buyer and seller of human organs. In order to pay for the
cost of the refugee camps, the U.S. government had a contract with
BioFarms Corporation. All refugees and their organs were considered
property of BioFarms until their eighteenth birthday. It was an
ideal business arrangement for the organ manufacturing corporation.
Mortality rates in the refugee camps were so high, and it was
bioethically responsible to pass on one’s organs upon death. Since
the organ manufacturing company would be upset if they lost a
harvest, most refugees were leashed by black bracelets, unable to
wander more than fifteen miles from their camp. If they did, their
leashes would set off electric shocks, reminding them to return to
the perimeter. Some of the more unruly refugee leashes were set to
three miles.

Rocky’s was set to one hundred
yards.

The leash crackled another blue arc,
making her arm convulse.

Nick smirked. “Got you on a short
leash?”

“I don’t feel it no more.”
Rocky took a long, drippy lick from the cone, showing the readout
on her leash:
Geneva Virus Levels: 0.05.
Chance of Cardiac Arrest: 1 in 100. Life Expectancy: 19.

A pang of sympathy ran through Nick.
Growing up in the refugee camp wasn’t an easy life. Maybe Rocky was
just misunderstood.

“They shortened her leash again,” said
a bystander. “Rocky was caught sneaking into a pet shop off of
I-90. Mixed all the pet food up with the Geneva virus and fed it to
the animals.”

Nick’s sympathies
evaporated.

“What do you want with Tim?”

“I told him to give me his
ice cream. He wouldn’t. We don’t get any fancy stuff like
you
preppies
up
there. So what? You gonna hit me now? Or are you afraid I’m gonna
get you sick?”

“I’m not supposed to hit a girl. Grand
wouldn’t like it,” Nick said, clearly against his will.

“You won’t hit a girl? Oh, look at
you,” said Rocky. “Aren’t you a goody two shoes ‘cause you won’t
hit a girl. But the real question is—” Her head bobbed like a buoy.
“—Who’s. The. Girl?”

“
You’re right. That’s
a
very
good
question.”

“
Oooh,” the hecklers
said.

“
What? Did? You?
Say?”

Don’t hit her. Don’t hit
her. Grand wouldn’t like it.

“Come on, Tim. Let’s go.” Nick turned
toward the house.

“Oh no you didn’t. Where you going? Is
it feeding time for grandpapa?” Rocky rounded her arms imitating an
old grandpa. “I need a wipe, little Nicky. I think some of this
plum juice dribbled on my big, fat, belly!”

The hecklers guffawed in
response.

Nick turned quickly and took
three long paces, cocked his head up and grinned. He smiled so
long, Rocky started to get an uncertain look in her eyes. Nick
found the smile to be a very useful, versatile instrument in a
confrontational situation. Way better than a grimace. It was great
for a faceoff with knuckle draggers like Rocky. You just smile
ear-to-ear, long enough for your opponent to let their guard down.
All the while thinking,
I’m about to punch
you in the face.

Like right now, for example.

CRACKK!

An ice cream cone somersaulted ten feet
away. Rocky spun, her dreadlocks tilt-a-whirling down.

“Don’t talk about Grand like that!”
Nick pushed two awestruck kids apart and marched toward the
house.

“Mgggrrrhh!” came an inhuman
sound.

Nick looked back.

“Raaggh!!!” Rocky leapt to her feet and
charged. Nick shifted slightly to the left, grabbed her waist, and
threw. Rocky fell with the impact of a moderately sized
meteor.

“Aaaiiighhh!!!!” Rocky’s face turned
beet red. She dug her pudgy fingers into his shoe and pulled.
Nick’s world spun. Air kicked out of his lungs and the blue sky
looked back down. Rocky charged on hands and knees.

“Woah!” Nick crab walked in reverse,
her fingers lashing at his shins. He leapt to his feet.
“Freak!”

Rones lie about their true
intent. They enter the city of Huron at the peril of us
all.

No, no, no,
Nick thought.
Come
on!

Rones lie about their true
intent. They enter the city of Huron at the peril of us
all.

Little lightning bolts danced around
Nick. Vomit swirled up the back of his throat. His lips started to
move, even though it wasn’t his voice: “Rones lie about their true
intent. They enter the city of Huron at the peril of us all. Rones
lie about their true intent. They enter the city of Huron at the
peril of us—Ooof!” Nick groaned. Rocky’s shoulder slammed into
stomach, separating organs.

Nick was on the ground again. Rocky
grabbed a snatch of his blond hair and dragged him to his feet.
Fortunately, she left her right side completely exposed. Nick took
full advantage.

Crackk!

Rocky toppled over. Her legs kicked up
at eleven o’clock, teetered, and fell to nine.

Nick stood to his feet and prepared for
the resurgence.

She said nothing.

Nick heard his own heavy panting.
“Grand’s awesome. Talk about him like that again, and it’s you in
traction.” In a triumphant breath, Nick pushed through the crowd
and toward the shed.

“Auuiigghhh!” Rocky’s wails frightened
away a flock of pigeons. “You’re not supposed to hit a
girl!”

“
I could have taken her.”
Tim grabbed Nick’s arm. “I didn’t need your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick said.

“We made a deal.” Tim wiped the caked
blood from his mouth. “You don’t bail me out anymore, and I don’t
snitch on you about all your little experiments.”

“How are we supposed to finish setting
up for the demonstration if you’re in the ER fighting for your
life.”

“Oh—” Tim rolled his eyes. “—now I get
it. You didn’t care about me at all. This is all about your little
machine. By the way, what’s a Rone?”

“I dunno.” Nick looked away.

“You were all psych ward about some
Rones being bad and some city—Huron?”

Three • The
Peruvian

The mountains of central
Peru.

Same time.

Tink. Tink.

Hollow . . . metal? The Peruvian man
squeezed the shovel.

Tink. Tink.
Tink.

He threw the shovel aside. The Peruvian
knew what to do. First, he would report to the project leader and
then begin the tedious work of gently removing the dirt away with a
soft brush for the next three days.

He did neither.

The Peruvian clawed the ground. Bits of
rock shoved under nails. Dirt flew into nose, teeth, and
eyes.

They gave up on the western
site. Thought I was an idiot.
The Peruvian
laughed to himself. Y
es, yes. Cigar-shaped
. . . self-emanating alloy, just as he told me. And here it is—the
oldest artifact on the planet.

The Peruvian thought he saw an
engraving. He inhaled and blew.

L? An English L? In Peru? He
glanced over. Only the ruins of Machu Picchu leered over the
twenty-foot hole.
“Ha!” He congratulated
himself.
English? Chinese? What do I care?
Oldest artifact ever to be discovered, and I made the find. That
project leader told me it would be worth more money than these
Peruvian eyes have ever seen.

The idea swelled before he could stop
it.

I could slip it into my
pocket. Sneak out after nightfall. And I know just the
buyer.
The Peruvian loosened his pocket as
the object parted from its archaeological grave. A shadow passed
over.

The Peruvian leapt to his
feet.

What is he doing down
here?

There stood the crazy old project
leader with his straw white hair and green trench coat. He never
came groundside, preferring to stay in his hovertruck 24/7, so he
could watch over the Machu Picchu dig like some Norse god of
archaeology.

“I—I think we’ve found it—” The
Peruvian man yielded. “—Mr. Steward Lyons.”

“Yes. I saw it from the truck. Bring it
here, quickly now,” the project leader barked in what sounded like
a Scottish accent.

The Peruvian obeyed. He
tapped the
UP
symbol on the auto-lift. Electromagnetic thrusters raised him
twenty feet and eye level with the project leader. But the Peruvian
didn’t make eye contact with him, couldn’t make eye contact with
him.

The project leader frightened
him.

No other way to put it. He was
abnormally tall, with the beard of a wild man and a temper to
match. And he used big words like “forsooth” and
“malcontent.”

With a sigh, the Peruvian
surrendered the oldest artifact on the planet into a hand trailed
with dirt.
Idiot. Weak, stupid
idiot,
the Peruvian thought.

The project leader withdrew a monocle
and for the first time ever, smiled.

The Peruvian smiled back. “Wonder if
the Smithsonian has my Friendbook address. You know, for follow-up
questions.”

Or a job promotion?
the Peruvian thought to himself.
Maybe even director? Suppose I should hire a
publicist.

The project leader cupped his hand,
raised his chest and spit.

“Ugh.” The Peruvian covered his
mouth.

The project leader rubbed the artifact
and spit between his palms, shook it, and then scratched it with
blackened nails. The Peruvian dug through his back pocket and
offered up a bottle of hand sanitizer.

The project leader ignored him. “Very
good, Ludwig, very good. Couldn’t have made the clue more difficult
to find. You and your puzzles.”

“It—it is quite strange,” said the
Peruvian. “This script, it is an English ‘L’, yes? Could not be
Incan.”

The project leader’s face rounded on
the object. “And why should it be? Laid here when Peru was nothing
more than an ice sheet.”

A twig cracked in the distance. In one
motion, the project leader shoved the artifact into his coat,
reached behind his neck and unsheathed an axe.

“Woah.” The Peruvian
scrambled backward. “What?
What?
”

The project leader traced a figure
eight with the axe head. The jungle responded in silence. The axe
was mysteriously sheathed again.

“Wh—why do you have a battle axe at the
dig . . . at all?” The Peruvian cocked his head. “And where do you
keep that thing?”