Welcome to the Jungle (3 page)

IN A CROWDED, DARKENED CLASSROOM IN WINTER- POLE HEADQUARTERS, DIANA FOUGHT TO KEEP
her eyelids from collapsing. The daily marathon lectures she endured in the junior-agent training program were so dull, she had already counted every tile on the ceiling (there were 256 of them). She had also named all 256. Her favorite tile was Fred, the faded white one over the boy who sat two desks in front of her. She didn't remember the boy's name, but she remembered Fred, because the tile had a blotchy brown stain of mysterious origin.

Put simply, Diana would have rather been anywhere other than Winterpole Headquarters. She never should have listened to her mother when she'd sweetly suggested, “Why don't you take some time off of school, honey?” It had sounded great at first—skipping a few classes at the International School for Exceptional Students, getting a chance to impress her mother with her commitment to Winterpole's mission, finding a distraction from the recent debacle with Vesuvia—but the reality was that Diana still had to complete most of her regular schoolwork; and the more she learned about her mother's employers, the more she felt just as baffled by their methods as she did by her ex-best friend's.

She tried to force herself to find the lessons interesting, but she just couldn't do it. Even if she did agree with Winterpole's primary objectives to protect the environment and regulate world matters, she could not stand their antiquated methods and ancient technology. Recently Winterpole had turned its focus to hunting down “problem people,” an assortment of rule breakers who ignored the bylaws.

Winterpole's internship coordinator and junior-agent instructor, Mister Skole, was leading this morning's lecture. To help with his presentation, he enlisted the aid of a slide projector so ancient that it belonged in a museum, or perhaps a mummy's tomb.

“The man you see before you is one of Winterpole's most annoying adversaries,” Mister Skole explained, his face bathed in the pale-blue light of the projector. “George Lane and his delinquent family frequently trespass on protected habitats and bird-nap endangered species. Most recently, they circumvented our statutes by creating their own continent right under our noses! He is the very worst. Next slide.” He said
next slide
, but there was no one to insert a new slide for him; he was operating the projector by himself.

As the teacher fumbled with the old machine, Diana wondered if the Lanes had taken the time to savor their victory over Winterpole and Vesuvia. Although Diana was glad her ex-best friend hadn't turned the Great Pacific Garbage Patch into New Miami, it didn't feel good to be on the losing team. Come to think of it, that was probably why Mister Snow was so determined to arrest George Lane now.

“Pay attention, class,” Mister Skole said, having finally settled the next slide into the projector. “This is Professor Nathaniel Doran, a vegetable smuggler who has been running an illegal botanical refuge in Texas for the past ten years.” A man in his early forties appeared on the screen, reclining on a large pile of loose broccoli. His warm eyes and cool smile made Diana think that he was either the most confident man on earth, or he
really
liked broccoli.

“Alas, Winterpole has failed to locate his latest operation despite our best efforts. Maybe one of you kids will spearhead the mission to find Professor Doran and put a stop to his carrot corral!”

None of these problem people appeared to have done anything particularly bad, which made the whole lecture seem irrelevant and unworthy of Diana's attention. She wondered if it was possible to fall asleep with her eyes open. Maybe she was sleeping right now, and she just didn't know it. Her eyelids lowered slowly.

Mister Skole slapped his finger against the projection of the next photo, making Diana jump. The slide that followed was an impressive landscape of the African veld. A woman stood center frame, leaning against a crossbow the size of a bazooka. She was draped in multi-colored animal hides, which did little to conceal the sculpted muscles of her Amazonian figure. A dead zebra lay at her feet, its white stripes brown with dirt. Some of the junior agents gasped audibly. This was the first “problem person” who looked like she deserved to be locked away by Winterpole. Mister Skole dubbed her the Big Game Huntress.

Before Diana could really take in the image, Mister Skole aggressively changed slides. “Next! Those pathetic polluters the Condo Corporation!” Diana's stomach dropped. She knew what was coming. Sure enough, her teacher gestured toward a very unflattering photo of Vesuvia. “We may have apprehended the minuscule mastermind of that rotten bunch, but the threat is far from over.” Now Diana was firmly awake. She felt the eyes of her classmates on her. Everyone knew about her friendship with Vesuvia.

It was impossible for Diana to be both her mother's spy among the junior agents
and
a traitor in cahoots with the enemy, but somehow her classmates still treated her like she was both.

The harsh glares of her classmates made it hard for Diana to follow the rest of Mister Skole's presentation. The problem people started to blur together.

“Now, students”—Mister Skole turned to face the class—“who can tell me which of these individuals is the biggest threat to Winterpole? Diana Maple?”

Diana looked up from her notes. “The biggest threat? Um . . . hmm . . . irrelevance?”

Judging by Mister Skole's expression, he wasn't amused by Diana's attempt to lighten the situation. The boy at the desk next to Diana snapped his hand in the air. Mister Skole smiled in relief. “Yes, Benjamin?”

Benjamin Nagg was one of Diana's fellow junior agent trainees. He had chilling blue eyes that fit right in at Winterpole, and slick black hair that formed a shiny helmet around his overly large head. He was so skinny and pale he almost looked sickly, but when he spoke, he sounded commanding and self-important.

“The biggest threat to Winterpole is George Lane and his children, Mister Skole.”

Diana's teacher beamed at Benjamin. “Very good, Mister Nagg.”

The boy did not let up. “Anyone who would flaunt his disregard for Winterpole statutes as gratuitously as that man must be stopped. It is outrageous that he and his family would exploit loopholes the way they have. We should make an example of the Lanes, as we did the CEO of the Condo Corporation.” Benjamin cast a sidelong glance at Diana when he said that last bit. Diana scowled.

“Eloquently put, Benjamin.” Mister Skole's smile grew even wider.

Benjamin nodded. “Not everyone can be the boss's child, Mister Skole, but that doesn't mean we can't all know a thing or two . . . thousand.”

Diana nearly growled. She didn't ask to be the daughter of the Secretary of Enforcement. She hated it! Why did Benjamin have it out for her?

Dejected and annoyed, Diana stared out the classroom window into the hallway beyond. Suddenly, Mister Snow walked past the classroom with a retinue of armored enforcement agents—her mother's people. Diana realized that these must be the agents the Director had dispatched to apprehend George Lane from his formerly un-legislate-able home on the eighth continent.

No one would ever describe Diana Maple as an impulsive girl. That personality trait had stuck to Vesuvia like a cherry lollipop to a car seat. But she was tired of her classmates' taunts, she was tired of Benjamin Nagg, and most of all, she was tired of the suspicious looks her mother had been giving her ever since Vesuvia had been exposed as an enemy of Winterpole. So for this one moment, Diana imitated her ex-best friend.

She waited until Mister Skole wasn't looking and then snuck out of the classroom.

Long-distance missions launched from a docking bay on the top floor of Winterpole Headquarters, where an enormous skylight opened so hoverships could depart. Normally the docking bay was empty, save the hulks of neglected hoverships that took up space in a circle around the bay, and the occasional cleaning robots that flitted around like insects, slurping up spills.

But today the bay was a mad house.

Long lines of paperwork experts snaked across the metal floor. Each employee had been assigned a different stack of permission slips to be filled out in anticipation of the mission. Enforcement agents in iceberg-shaped helmets hurried about, armed to the molars with glue guns and other weaponry.

Diana couldn't help but feel a little sorry for Rick and Evie. The full force of Winterpole's might was about to hit them hard. But at least after that nasty business was over, Winterpole would save Australia. Now
that
was something she hoped she'd be there to see. And she would be, if the plan she had set in motion worked.

Diana had decided that to prove to her mother, Mister Skole, Benjamin, and all the rest that she could be just as good as a Winterpole agent as any of them, she would have to work with the best. And who was the best? Mister Snow.

Diana watched as he stood at the center of the docking bay, barking orders. “I want seventeen fully equipped enforcers on every hovership. Have your EMP grenades checked. I will not tolerate any errors, ladies and gentlemen. So do not slip. Do not waver. It is imperative we do not disappoint the Director. His favor is all that matters to us—the humble guardians of the planet Earth. We are going to find George Lane and stop him permanently.”

Diana felt a little queasy. Sure, she'd chosen to force her way into the mission for personal reasons, but still, she didn't like the way Mister Snow talked about what they were up to. Winterpole was supposed to legislate the eighth continent, but all anyone was talking about was arresting George Lane and pleasing the Director, not saving Australia. This was bigger than the quirky inventor. Couldn't Winterpole see that?

“Where are those geolocation reports?” Mister Snow shouted over the racket. “Will someone PLEASE get me the geolocation reports?!”

Diana searched the crowded docking bay. She found the missing reports in a stack of cardboard boxes on a dolly. They were hiding behind an artillery tank that looked like an old-fashioned clothing iron strapped with machine guns.

Diana dragged the dolly to the middle of the room where Mister Snow paced impatiently.

“Junior Agent Maple, what are you doing?”

“Here are those—uff!—geolocation reports you requested, sir. I found them over there.”

Mister Snow nodded approvingly. “Not bad, Maple. We may make an agent out of you, yet.”

“Thank you, sir.” Diana smiled proudly. “To that end, I wish to make a request.”

“Now is hardly the time, Maple. Can't you see I'm busy?”

Vesuvia had dismissed her the same way many times (albeit with much more colorful language). At any other moment Diana would have given up, but not today. “Sir, I want to go on the mission to the eighth continent.”

“Don't be outrageous! This is the most important operation that Winterpole has ever run. I can't have some trainee getting in the way.”

She had expected him to say that. That's why she'd come prepared.

From the pocket of her uniform, Diana withdrew a rolled up piece of cyber paper—the latest advancement in Winterpole paperwork. The synthetic document was made of a durable polymer instead of pulped trees, which made it un-rip-able, un-spill-juice-on-able, and filled with electronic metadata.

Diana pointed the rolled up cyber paper at Mister Snow like it was a fencer's foil. “I need to go on this mission, Mister Snow. To that end, I have acquired a perMission slip, which authorizes me to join you on the eighth continent.”

Mister Snow blinked in disbelief. “A perMission slip? Where did you get that?”

The truth was that she had stolen the perMission slip and forged her mother's signature after sneaking out of her classroom. But she wasn't going to tell Mister Snow that.

“Mister Snow, I'm positively shocked that you would ask me that question. Aren't you forgetting Winterpole Statute Twenty-three-dash-fourteen-alpha-eight-with-feet?”