Seven Wonders Book 2: Lost in Babylon (24 page)

We entered through a sliding door in the Plexiglas. The machine made a scraping noise and let off a puff of black steam, which rose up into a vacuum duct overhead.

I backed away, coughing.

“Boys and girls,” Professor Bhegad said. “Meet Shelley.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

T
HE MACHINE BARKED
a greeting halfway between a
brack
and a
clonk
.

“You lost me, Professor Bhegad,” Marco said.

“Wait. We're supposed to go back to Babylon with this thing?” I said.

“Actually, this
thing
, as you say, is not Shelley,” Bhegad replied. “Shelley is what it makes.”

He pressed a button. A bright light went on behind the black-tinted window. We could see something in a small chamber inside the machine. I moved closer.

Floating in midair was a brownish-gold shard of metal. It was curved like a shield but jagged around the perimeter. Silver-gray wisps puffed into the chamber, clouds of tiny particles that swirled along the surface and then clung to the edges. Turning slowly, the shield seemed to be growing. Curving.

“When it's finished, it will be a perfect sphere,” Bhegad said.

Aly's eyes were the size of softballs. “You're making a Loculus?”

“Not a Loculus,” Bhegad replied. “A Loculus casing. Something I have long thought about constructing. Using plans drafted long ago by Herman Wenders in his journals. People scoffed at the audacity of his schemes, but the man was a genius, far ahead of his time. The project moved to Priority One upon your return from Rhodes.”

“You never saw the Loculus,” Marco pointed out. “Neither did Bigfoot. He was in jail. How could you have analyzed the material?”

“Again, Wenders was our guide,” Bhegad said. “He had managed to find a piece of a Loculus—at least that was what he claimed. Our metallurgists have analyzed the shard, replicated it, and then treated it with a special alloy made of metal and carbon fiber, organic and inorganic polymers, and silicate derivatives. To give it flexibility and lightness.”

“Just stir and bake,” Aly said, staring into the black window, “and get instant empty Loculus shell.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Bhegad said. “You see, when the Loculi were together in the Heptakiklos, they acted as conduits for the Atlantean energy, which traveled from sphere to sphere. The great Qalani had constructed ingenious skins to allow the free energy flow. We believe we have done the same thing with Shelley. If you put that sphere within a foot or so of a real Loculus, its material will promote a transfer of contents.” The Professor's eyes were wild with excitement. “You will be able to leave the real Loculus there. When you bring Shelley back, it will contain what we need for the Heptakiklos!”

“But if this thing works,” I said, “and we steal away the energy, how will Babylon survive?”

“My research suggests that the Atlantean energy is like human blood—remove some and over time it will replicate to fill the vessel again,” Bhegad said. “All you need is a small threshold of transfer energy. We have configured Shelley to change color when that threshold is reached. After about an hour of exposure, it will become green and may be taken away. Over time, the energy will fill the entire shell.”

Marco was taking notes. That sight alone was nearly as shocking as this crazy scheme of Bhegad. “Cool, if it works,” Marco said. “A shell for the energy. Is that why you call it Shelley?”

Professor Bhegad smiled. “It is named after Mary Shelley. She wrote a little story about a scientist who created a living thing out of spare parts. Similar to what we're doing.”

“It's aliiiive,” Aly said.

“Pardon me?” Bhegad said.

“Frankenstein
,” Aly replied.

Bhegad grinned. “Precisely.”

* * *

Cass set down Leonard's glass enclosure beside the basketball court. We'd had a few hours since Bhegad's demonstration. We'd eaten lunch, argued, and finally agreed to do recreation time. It had been more than twenty-four hours since we emerged from the Euphrates, and the lizard hadn't perked up a bit. “I'm worried,” Cass said. “Professor Bhegad says Leonard hasn't developed the immunities we have. Our air is full of germs that didn't exist in Babylonian times.”

A fat dragonfly whizzed by Marco, who grabbed it in midair with quick reflexes that still astonished me. Cass took off the top screen and Marco dropped in the fly. It buzz-bombed the lethargic lizard, who looked up and then went back to sleep.

“Dang, that was almost juicy enough for
me
to eat,” Marco said. With a shrug, he began dribbling the basketball onto the court.

Cass sat with Aly and me on the asphalt, watching Marco shoot baskets. As usual he was making shots from a gazillion feet away. With his G7W talents pushed to max, he never missed. Even Serge, a KI computer whiz who had played on an Olympic basketball team, had never beaten Marco.

“Doesn't that ever get boring?” Aly called out. “Making every shot?”

Marco palmed the ball. “Yup. I'll coach you instead, Brother Cass. For free. Right now.”

Cass stood up. “Really? You would teach me?”

“If you leave Leonard for a minute.” Marco threw the ball directly at Cass. It hit him square in the chest and knocked him over. “First rule, you have to use your hands. It's not soccer.”

“Not soccer,” Cass said. “Right.”

Aly took my arm and led me to the tennis court, about twenty yards away. I looked over my shoulder at Cass. He was dribbling the basketball awkwardly toward the basket. Slapping it, really. But looking incredibly happy. Marco followed, pretending to guard him. “Williams charrrrges the net . . .” Marco called out. “He shoots . . . air ball!”

“Cass looks like he's enjoying this,” Aly said.

I nodded. “Maybe he's mapping out the geography of the basketball court.”

“Marco is the ultimate cool brother,” Aly replied. “It must be tough for Cass. He gets so down on himself, not having a real family. You know, except us.”

“Us and Leonard,” I said. As I went to my end of the court, Aly opened a fresh canister of tennis balls. “Serve it and swerve it,” I said.

“What?” she said.

I felt a sudden tug inside. The last time I'd played tennis was with my dad. When he wasn't overseas on business, we'd play every weekend at the Belleville Rec Center. “Habit,” I said. “It's what my dad and I say. He's always trying to teach me how to do spins.”

“My mom is a terrible player. She says she loses on purpose, because she likes to be the one who ends the game with perfect love. Which casts out all evil. She has a weird sense of humor.” Aly served the ball. “Do you still think of home a lot?”

I hit it back sharply. Too sharply. It sailed just past the line. “Sorry. Yeah, I guess I do. Sometimes.”

The truth was, I hadn't been. Not consciously. Not while we were chasing a griffin in Greece and visiting Babylon. But the thoughts of home had built up in a dark corner of my brain. Every once in a while a mental light would flick on. Like when we went to Ohio. And here in the tennis court. I could see Dad hunched over at the base line, wearing his weird tennis hat with drooping white ear flaps. I could picture Mom too, as if she'd never passed away. She was sneaking up behind him, lifting the flaps as if they were bunny ears . . .

“Wake up, Jack!”

Aly's voice shocked me into reality. The ball whizzed passed my ear, landing just inside the line. “Whoa. Can we do that one over?”

“No,” Aly said with an
are-you-kidding
laugh. “Fifteen-love.”

We volleyed back and forth, the rackets making a sharp
mmmock!
sound on contact.

Mock!
“My brother, Josh, is good,” Aly said. “He gave me lessons. Maybe you'll meet him someday.”

Mock!
“Mom is the killer tennis player in our family,” I said. “Awesome serve.”

Mock!
“You never talk about her,” Aly said.

Mock!
“What?” I replied.

Mock!
“Your mom. You always talk about your dad. Did they split?”

The ball sailed over the fence and into the jungle. I twirled my racket and watched it. “My mom died.”

Aly looked mortified. “Sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to—”

“It's okay,” I said. “I still think about her in present tense, even though I was pretty little when it happened.”

Aly was over on my side of the court now. “When what happened?” she asked gently, quickly adding, “If you don't mind my asking.”

“I don't mind,” I said. “My mom was a really good athlete. She liked to go on these exotic trips with her geologist friends. Dad didn't like going so much. He'd stay home with me. That was before he had all these long business trips. Anyway, Mom spent months preparing for some hike in Antarctica. She was so excited. Dad and I were following her trek in the cold, through this awesome video feed, when a snowstorm hit . . . It was really bad. We could hear yelling. Then the yelling got drowned out by the wind. Dad says I started screaming, like I knew what was about to happen. The screen turned totally white . . . and then nothing . . .”

As the memory came back, I realized why I never talked about this. It still hurt so much. When the image went black I felt like my entire body had snapped in two.

Aly put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, Jack . . .”

“We lost the connection,” I said, looking away. “Later we found out that the team had wandered off course. They were near this huge, deep crevasse. They'd been warned not to go there, but their equipment failed. They . . . they never found her.”

“I'm sorry,” Aly said.

Her hand brushed down the side of my arm and touched my hand. I turned toward her. Her face wasn't where I expected it to be. It was so close I could see the contours of a tear flowing down her cheek. Somehow I didn't mind it.

“Yo!” Something hard and rubbery smacked the side of my head and I jerked away. Marco was running toward us, through the gate. “Excuse me. Didn't mean to break up your precious moment.”

Aly scooped up the basketball and whipped it toward his face. Marco caught it easily and twirled it on the tip of his index finger. “Can you guys do this?”

I stood there, dumbfounded, not really comprehending Marco's request. Not really comprehending anything. “No,” Aly and I both said at the same time.

Marco gave the ball another spin. “It's amazingly easy. I'll teach you. A clinic for G7W geeks! Hey, if Mr. Maps can improve, you can too . . .”

“Helllllp!” A shout from Cass made the ball spill off Marco's finger. He whirled around. Cass wasn't on the court.

“Brother Cass?” Marco muttered, taking off like a shot in the direction of Cass's call.

Dropping our rackets, we followed. Together we charged into the underbrush.
“Cass!”
I called out.

We got about thirty feet when I saw Cass's curly brown hair, threaded with leaves. He was stuck in a tangle of vines, thrashing his arms. “Leonard's gone!” he cried.

Marco ripped the vines off him. “Gone? That thing could barely move.”

“Here, Leonard!”
Cass shouted, looking around desperately.

We fanned out into the jungle. The bushes were thick, the trees dense. Above us, birds cawed loudly. Aly and I gave each other a look. “I say we find another one and pretend it's Leonard,” Aly said. “A healthier one.”

“Um, we may not need to,” I said, gesturing back the way we'd come.

Through the trees was a flash of red hair. Aly and I tiptoed closer. At the edge of the jungle, not far from where we'd started, was a park bench. It was probably once in the open, but now it was nestled in the overgrown jungle.

On the bench was a pair of massive shoulders and a hefty frame that made the bench sag in the middle. “Torquin?” I said.

He turned. In one hand was a baby bottle. In the other was Leonard. “He took one ounce,” Torquin said.

“What do you think you're doing?”
shouted Cass, barreling through the woods.

“Didn't want to bother game,” Torquin said. “Made formula.”

Cass plopped himself down on the bench. “What kind of formula?”

“Protein. Mashed up bugs. Some scorpion. Syrup,” Torquin said, nuzzling the bottle into Leonard's mouth. “Good stuff. I take every morning.”

“I don't believe this,” Marco said with a groan.

“Does he like it?” Cass asked, smiling down at Leonard.

“Yummers,” Torquin said. “I can keep? When you leave tomorrow?”