Welcome to the Jungle (16 page)

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
fab
ulous 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 for 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.

The crew chief waved goodbye and walked back to her hangar, while the Winterpole agents moved in closer.

“You're the son of Melinda Lane?” one of them asked.

“The stainer?”

“The liar?”

“What's your name, boy?”

“Uh . . . um . . .” Rick tried to think of something to get him out of this mess.

“I say!” 2-Tor bellowed. “I do rightly say. Step back, agents. I know the law! I know Winterpole tribunal statutes like the back of my drumstick. I demand you let this boy see his mother at once, criminal or not! Who is in charge here?”

“Quit squawking, you costumed freak,” said one of the agents, an older bald man with a hooked nose. “I'm Mister Horn. I'm in charge here.”

“Costumed!?” 2-Tor said like someone had called him fat.

Mister Horn tried to lower the rising tempers. “All right, everyone calm down. The guy in the bird suit is right. The statutes clearly state that family can visit the prisoner the day before the trial.”

“Trial?!” Rick cried.

“Bird suit?!” 2-Tor said, equally in horror.

“Well, come on,” Mister Horn said, waving them to the back room. “This way.”

Relieved, Rick felt the blood rush back to his head. The good news was that this division of Winterpole had not been notified of the break-in at the Prison at the Pole. As long as the agents stayed in the dark, Rick could stay out of trouble.

From what Rick could tell, Winterpole had been given space to operate on the Ink-A-Spot vessel. The architecture and furniture were all too clean and modern for Winterpole, but the people, with their stiff outfits and overly serious attitudes, were more what Rick expected.

They reached a heavy locked door with an entry keypad. Mister Horn shielded the keypad with his hand as he punched in a few numbers. The door opened and suddenly Rick was back at the Prison at the Pole.

Well, not quite. But it was a jail and did bring back those rotten memories.

Here the walls were made of glass and metal instead of ice, and cramped cells lined both sides of a narrow corridor. The cells were empty except for the one at the end, where Rick's mother was sitting on a thin cot, her head in her hands.

“Mom?”

She raised her head, a look of pure disbelief in her eyes. She ran to the bars of her cell and reached for her son. “Rick! Rick, my darling!”

“No touching!” snapped Mister Horn.

“Mom, are you all right? I have to get you out of here. We have to get back to the eighth continent. Everything is in danger. What happened to you?”

His mother sighed. “Oh, Rick, it was terrible. Cleanaspot has stripped me of my command.”

“What? How can that be?”

She looked at 2-Tor expectantly and a silent understanding passed between them. “Yes, Mum,” he said, nodding. Then he walked over to Mister Horn. “I say, I have a very complicated question about Statute Forty-Zero-A. Might you be able to clear things up for me?”

Mom lowered her voice and leaned close to Rick. “Ink-A-Spot accused us of creating the stain ourselves. They got Winterpole involved. Then Cleanaspot realized all of Winterpole was after was me. Probably revenge for something to do with your father and the eighth continent. Anyway, Cleanaspot had to distance itself from me so Winterpole would back off, but now people are saying that
I
created the stain by myself. How could that even be possible?” She sighed. “The Cleanaspot board says if I don't clean the stain by sundown, I'll lose my job forever.”

“But it's
your
company,” Rick said. “They can't fire you, can they?”

“They can. But that's not even the worst of it. Winterpole is going to put me on trial for creating the stain. That's why I'm stuck here. They're going to keep holding me captive until I am found guilty or innocent—but probably guilty. I don't know how to prove I didn't do it.”

“Who is defending you at your trial? You need an advocate.”

“I was going to do it myself, but”—Mom shook her head sadly—“Winterpole issued a gag order on me for the trial. I won't be able to speak.”

“Mom . . . I can do this. I can defend you!”

“But Rick, you're just a boy. I can't ask you to—”

“—You won't be able to stop me,” he said. “I'll start studying right away.”

She reached her hand through the bars to touch his face. “I need you now more than ever, Rick.”

“Hey!” Mister Horn shoved 2-Tor out of the way. “I said no touching.”

2-Tor scratched his beak. “Ah, yes, I see.
Fifty
-Zero-A. Very illuminating.”

That was all the time they were allowed with the prisoner. Mister Horn showed them out of Winterpole's makeshift office-slash-jail. Rick's head was spinning. Mom imprisoned. Dad missing. Evie off on her own.