Nikolas and Company: The Merman and The Moon Forgotten (9 page)

“In the boat you will find enough
provisions to last you two weeks,” said Lir. “This pool leads to a
merway, much like the ones you’ve seen in the fortress, except this
particular one is not completely submerged, allowing for humling
travel.”

Yeri looked again. Sure enough, at the
far end of the pool was a watery tunnel.

“The water is enchanted, carrying you
inland and along the merway. This merway cuts through the Dorseteen
cave system and will take you four hundred miles west to the
Fendrow village. There, you will find a blacksmith by the name of
Mullen. She will know you by the signet. Do not reveal anything to
her until you give her the password. Do you understand? Simply say
‘squall.’ Once you’ve told her the password, Mullen will provide
you with a horse and a few week’s rations. Do not forget. Do you
have any other questions or requests? Once you row down the merway,
you will not be able to return. We must undock from this port for
our own protection.”

“It’s a bit dark in there, isn’t it?”
Yeri’s voice reverberated down the tunnel. “The fouls couldn’t make
their way down there, right?”

Lir clutched Yeri’s bony shoulder. “You
are our only means of salvation, Yeri Willrow.”

Yeri nodded. 


“Do you have any other questions?” said
Lir.

“None that I can think of, Duke,” Yeri
shook his head. Secretly, he wished he had a myriad of
questions—anything to stall the inevitable.

With that, Yeri awkwardly placed his
left foot over the boat. He held tightly to Captain Jonn’s muscular
forearm until he found a seat. Yeri lifted the oar, dropped it into
the water, and stopped.

“I do have a question, sir, if you’ll
forgive me. Anyone might call himself a steward. How can I tell one
from another?”

“Every city speaks to her
steward.”

“Very good.” Yeri did not drop the oar.
“One more thing. He could simply lie and claim the city speaks to
him?”

“That is why the scroll has been
enchanted and will recognize a true Steward of Huron from a false
one,” Lir nodded.

“Right. Very good . . .” Yeri still did
not drop the oar. “One last thing. It seems I’ve already forgotten
his—”

“Nikolas Lyons. His name is Nikolas
Lyons.”

“Read my mind, sir. Thank you,
sir.”

Yeri Willrow dropped the oar and pushed
away. As the water squeezed into the frothing merway, he said the
name over and over, “Steward Nikolas Lyons. Steward Nikolas Lyons.
Steward Nikolas Lyons . . .”

Eight • A Rushed
Reunion

Nick Lyons. My name is Nick Lyons,”
Nick answered the St. Mary’s nursedrone sitting behind the front
desk.

“Full name, please,” the nursedrone
said, tilting her plastic alloy head to emulate a person asking a
question.

“That’s my full name. Grand calls me
Nikolas, and so does Caroline Wendell too, I guess, but Nick is the
name on the birth certificate.”

“How may I help you?” said the
nursedrone.

“My mom and dad were drinking diet
sodas, and they got really, I don’t know, sick, or poisoned,
or—”

“ErikandSonyaLyons!” Tim had just
caught up.

“Your parents are in the Disease and
Poison Emergency Wing.” The nursedrone pressed a button. “Nick and
Tim Lyons are here for Erik and Sonya Lyons.”

A female voice from the console
answered, “Send them to the waiting room. I’ve a few questions
about their parents’ files. Their biochemistry is off the charts. .
. .” The voice walked off.

The nursedrone pointed down the hall.
“Follow the signs to the Disease and Poison Emergency waiting
room.”

They took off running. The white
plastic walls reflected their desperate sprint.

Zzzzzz.

A small, white sphere with green
scanning eyes floated next to them. It was an
inocudrone.

“Medi-one records tell me—” The
inocudrone paced with them. “—that Nick Lyons and Tim Lyons have
not received their inoculation shots for fifteen days. Remember
that forty new strands of the cold and five new mutations of the
Geneva virus have appeared in only the last forty-eight hours.
Please remain still as I administer the vaccine.”

Tim and Nick stopped obediently and put
their arms out to the inocudrone. There are two places on the
planet not to be without your inoculations: the refugee camps and
the hospital.

The inocudrone was cycling through its
third and last shot when it announced, “Receiving a new
transmission from Medi-one for Nick Lyons. You are to receive the
neural inhibitor, R-5235—”

Nick jumped back. “No . . .”

“R-5235 is designed to suppress all
aggression.” The inocudrone aimed its needle at Nick’s
stomach.

Nick sidestepped quickly, found the red
emergency shut-off switch and twisted. The inocudrone fell straight
to the ground. A crashing sound reverberated throughout the hallway
causing nearby drones to pivot in their direction.

Tim jumped over the disabled
inocudrone. “What happened?”

“Come on.” Nick tore into another
run.

They charged through the sliding doors
and were met by a packed waiting room divided into refugees and
suburbanites. One side wore tattered, mismatched clothes, while the
other wore that week’s hottest fashion. Still, they all shared the
same expression: fear.

Among the suburbanites was a
mother wearing a
Robin’s Little
League
shirt and matching hat, holding her
three-year-old daughter. She covered her mouth, crying bitterly as
a doctor spoke under hushed breath. Nick couldn’t hear what the
doctor was saying, but he could guess. The mother and child left
with the doctor, opening up two seats for the brothers.

“What’s happening?” Tim said as he
plopped down next to an old, snoring hover-bus driver.

“I don’t know,” Nick
shrugged.

“So, if it’s not the Geneva virus, what
is it?” Tim said.

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s Grand?” Tim said.

Nick sighed, “I don’t know.”

They waited for what seemed like an
hour. Just when Nick was about to doze off, he heard the cautionary
tone of an inocudrone.

“Please, Mr. Lyons. You cannot go any
farther until I take a reading.”

“My grandsons. Where are they?” came a
Scottish accent.

Nick stood to his feet.

“I am collecting some very disturbing
vitals,” the inocudrone said.

“My grandsons!” the Scottish voice
bellowed.

Everyone’s gaze shifted to the voice on
the other side of the room.

“Mr. Lyons!” said the inocudrone. “Not
only are you six hundred and twenty days overdue for your
inoculation shots, I am detecting fifteen viruses, four of them
predating the iron age, twelve forms of bacteria indigenous to the
south side of Moon, and a form of metal that cannot be found on the
periodic table whatsoever. I am processing the necessary vaccines
now. Wait one moment.”

“
I would be pleased,
hubcap,” the Scottish voice said, “if you took three paces in the
opposite direction.”

“
I will need to administer
thirteen different vaccines,” the inocudrone announced. “Five
through the arm. Seven through the nose. And one—”

FRZEEESHHHH!
came the sounds of an exploding inocudrone. The
door slid open revealing a shower of sparks revealing a swarthy
looking man.

“Grand!” The brothers said.

Their grandfather stood like some
Viking out of time with his white and yellow marbled beard. He wore
a green trenchcoat plastered over with dirt. After three great
steps, he pulled the brothers into a hug that smelled of sweat and
hovertruck. Nick returned the hug. Tim stiffened.

“My boys!” Grand said.

“Wait a second—” Tim raised his hands.
“—you never come down here. I thought an ‘evil shadow’ covered the
face of Earth or something?”

“Nikolas—” Grand grabbed Nick by the
shoulders. “—I finally cracked Ludwig’s puzzle. It was buried in
Machu Picchu of all places. The Merrows are under attack. Huron
needs you.”

“Huron—How do you know about the
voice?” Nick said.

“Wait—What?” said Tim. “Whose Huron?
Back on Moon?”

“Well.” Grand’s head tilted. “Yes. It
is moonside.”

“Moonside?” Nick said. “Wait. What’s a
Merro—?”

“There’s a good deal that I need to
explain—” Grand had his hand up. “—But now is not the time. First,
I’m to fetch Erik and Sonya. Where are they?”

“Fetch?” Tim said under his
breath.

“They’re in there.” Nick pointed to the
epidemic ward. “One moment they were talking, and the next, Dad
couldn’t breathe and turned all purple-death.”

Grand looked to the door
with a sign clearly marked
Disease and
Poison Ward: No admittance beyond this point without
clearance.
He tried to pry the doors open.
They beeped a warning but wouldn’t budge. Then Nick saw something
very odd. Grand’s eyes lost their hue and turned blue while waves
of blue misted from his fingertips.

“Grand?” Nick said.

Their grandfather’s hands formed a
hollow circle and plunged into the crack of the door. It rolled
apart like paper.

“Scuccas? How could it be?” Grand
mumbled to himself. He looked down to Nick, then back through the
gap. “It is time we be leaving, boys.”

“Um,” Nick said, “why are you all blue
and misty?”

“It’s my jynn’us. Now, let’s go!”
Iron-like hands seized their shoulders and shifted the boys away.
He mumbled something about “my scent” as they marched out of the
hospital.

“In the truck. Don’t doddle,” their
grandfather commanded.

The hovertruck’s nose was
buried in a mulberry bush, clearly ignoring the parking pads. Both
boys tumbled into the cab and were met with the smell of pipe smoke
and truck sweat. Before they could manage their harnesses, the
hovertruck rocketed upward and in complete defiance of all
commercial airway regulations. They sped through a pair of
holosigns that read,
Beauty and the Botox:
When nature has been beastly to you,
and
Mind Transplants: Don’t die,
download!
Nick glanced quickly at St.
Mary’s. He half-expected a fleet of policedrones on their tail, but
there were only a couple of mangy dogs tearing across the
lawn.

Or were they horses?

“What’s going on?” Tim said, just as
they broke through the clouds.

“Waiting . . . no use waiting at the
hospital,” said Grand.

“For what?” said Tim.

Grand squeezed the steering wheel. “For
your parents.”

Nick looked sideways to his
grandfather. His crinkled brow spoke worry, even fear.

Nick really considered that
idea.

Grand? Afraid?

Nine • Going to a Better
Place