The Falcon's Feather

by Trudi Trueit

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help,” said Lani. “I should have—”

  “Are you kidding? You were a huge help! If you hadn’t figured out what in the world skrei was, Sailor and Emmett would still be debating about Greenland.”

  The corners of her mouth turned up. “Yeah. Maybe. I’ll do better next time. If there is one.”

  “What do you mean if? I still have six more pieces to find after this one. Of course there will be a next time.” He studied her. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “You’re trying to say you don’t want to help me search for the rest of the cipher.”

  “Why would I say that?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the one that said if—”

  She groaned. “I meant because you don’t need me. You’ve got your aunt and Emmett and your teammates—”

  “They’re great, everyone’s great, but they’re not you.” Cruz’s voice cracked. “I never said I didn’t need you, Lani.”

  “I never said I didn’t want to help.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Had they just had an argument? And if so, had he won or lost?

  Lani was looking down, her eyes hidden by her curtain of hair. “So…uh…now you’re heading to Svalbard?” Her tone was soft. Apologetic.

  “Yeah, but first Aunt Marisol is taking us on an archaeological mission at a Viking settlement in Newfoundland.” Cruz glanced at the clock. He had to hang up soon, and he didn’t want to spend the whole call talking about himself. “How was your weekend?”

  “Same old, same old. Bused tables most of yesterday.” Lani’s family owned the Purple Orchid, the fanciest restaurant on Kauai. Lani bounced on her bed. “But this afternoon I’m going horseback riding.” She loved horses. Her uncle owned a small ranch at the south end of the island, where he gave riding lessons and took tourists on the local trails. Lani went there whenever she could, usually with her brother Tiko.

  “At your uncle’s in Koloa? With Tiko?”

  “No…um…at Kilauea Point…with a friend. Remember last year when we worked on that habitat restoration project on Mauna Kea and planted, like, a hundred silverswords? I met him then.”

  “Him?” He couldn’t resist teasing her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Haych is just a friend. Don’t worry. You’re still my best friend.”

  Cruz wasn’t worried. Over the course of their friendship, they’d each had their share of crushes here and there, but no one had ever come between them. He felt sure this time would be no different. Cruz smiled. “Back at ya, hoaaloha.”

  “She’s your best friend? That hurts me to the core,” cried Emmett, dramatically flinging a fist to his chest and lurching forward as if Cruz had plunged a dagger into his heart.

  “Poor, friendless Emmett.” Lani laughed.

  There was a muffled noise coming from his computer.

  Lani’s mom was calling her.

  “Coming!” she yelled over one shoulder, then to Cruz, “Gotta go.” She jumped up, knocking her laptop over on her bed. Her room tipped sideways. A second later, her faced appeared, also sideways. “Aloha, Ems and Cruz.”

  “Have fun.” Cruz waved. He was glad to end the call on a happy note. Cruz scooted back against his headboard. He plumped up his pillow to settle in for an evening of studying. His first task was to read a chapter for Aunt Marisol’s quiz.

  In archaeology, stratigraphy is the study of layers of rock, soil, decomposing plants and animals, and other matter at a given site. These layers, or strata, are laid down over time. The bottom strata contains the oldest artifacts, while the youngest artifacts can be found in the top layers. Cut in a cross section, strata resemble the layers of a cake. Stratigraphy may provide archaeologists with valuable clues to the relative age of an artifact or site…

  Cruz tipped his head back. He let a stream of air sputter through his lips. What kind of a name was Haych anyway?

  * * *

  AUNT MARISOL was four minutes late to class. She was never late.

  Seated in his usual spot (second row, last chair) next to Emmett in Manatee classroom, Cruz pushed his arms up and arched his back for a good stretch. It was Monday morning, and he’d nearly fallen asleep in conservation class first period. Professor Gabriel had not been pleased to find Cruz nodding off during his lecture on geothermal energy. Cruz was sorry, but he couldn’t help it. He’d stayed up late studying. And then he’d just stayed up. It was Lani’s fault. Staring at the clock at half past midnight, he’d wondered if she was back from horseback riding. He’d almost called her. It was only 6:30 back in Hanalei. She would be having dinner, so it wouldn’t have been a big deal. He didn’t call her. She would have seen right through him and known he was checking in on her. Checking up on her, was more like it. Cruz knew Lani didn’t mean to replace him with a new best friend any more than he’d meant to leave her behind when he’d come to the Academy. But sometimes things happen, whether you intend for them to or not. What if Lani had a crush on this Haych? Or worse, more than a crush?

  Emmett was tapping his arm. “The ship has picked up speed.”

  Cruz glanced out the window. They did seem to be moving faster.

  “Good morning, explorers!” Aunt Marisol swept into the room.

  She wasn’t alone. Trailing her were Professor Gabriel, their conservation teacher; Professor Ishikawa, who taught biology; and Monsieur Legrand, their fitness and survival instructor. What was going on? Were they going to teach together?

  The class quickly settled.

  “Sorry I’m—we’re—late,” said Aunt Marisol. “I know I promised we’d be going ashore in Newfoundland to help map a Viking settlement site. Unfortunately, we’re not going to be able to do that.”

  Everyone moaned. So much for their first big adventure.

  Aunt Marisol lifted a hand. “I can understand your disappointment, but we’ll have plenty of opportunities to participate in archaeological expeditions on our travels. I promise. Right now, the Society needs our help.”

  Their help? Cruz sat forward, now very much awake.

  Professor Ishikawa cleared his throat. “This morning, I received a distress call from a friend of mine, a Canadian conservation biologist. While doing research in southern Nova Scotia, he discovered that some North Atlantic right whales that they’ve been tracking have become entangled in fishing gear.”

  Everyone gasped.

  “My friend sent me a brief clip of drone footage.” Their instructor plugged his phone into the computer connected to the projector. “One moment, please.”

  “It’s not uncommon for larger marine animals to get snagged in lines and nets,” explained Dr. Gabriel while they waited. “Unfortunately, bycatch is a serious global threat. More than three hundred thousand whales, dolphins, and porpoises die this way every year—that’s one death every two minutes.”

  “This clip is from the Bay of Fundy,” said Dr. Ishikawa. “The bay is a major feeding ground and nursery for a number of whale species, including the North Atlantic right whale—the most endangered whale on the planet. We estimate their global population at less than three hundred and fifty.”

  Ali put his hand up. “Why are they called right whales?”

  “Back in the heyday of the whaling industry, between the thirteenth and seventeenth centuries, they were considered the right kind of whales to hunt,” explained Dr. Gabriel. “They are baleen whales, so they feed by swimming through plankton with their mouths open and their heads just above the surface. They swim slowly and close to the shore, which made them an easy target for whalers. Plus, they had a high blubber content. Their fat was valued for lamp oil. The blubber kept the whales afloat after they’d been killed so they could be towed to shore.”

  “Although whaling is now against the law in the U.S. and Canada, these days right whales are
at risk for being hit by ships and getting snared in fishing lines,” said Dr. Ishikawa. “Okay, I think it’s uploaded.”

  Aunt Marisol lowered the lights. On the large view screen, they saw an aerial shot of the bay. Soaring about 30 feet above the water, the drone zeroed in on a pod of black whales gliding through the choppy, white-tipped waves. There must have been a dozen right whales—maybe more—of different sizes, yet the mammoth creatures moved easily and gracefully together with barely a few feet between them. Every now and then, one would surface, sending up a large, V-shaped cloud of spray. As they breached, the sun glistened off their shiny slate-colored backs. Cruz noticed the whales had bumps on their heads and no dorsal fins.

  “A calf!” cried Sailor.

  As the baby flicked its tail and happily bumped what was most likely its mom, everyone sighed. The drone banked left and the explorers’ “awws” turned to horrified “oohs.” A wide, dark green fishing net was wrapped around the left side of the mother whale’s body, strapping her fin to her side. Another whale came into frame with netting wrapped around its tail. A red buoy was attached to the net and was being dragged behind the creature. The video abruptly ended. “That’s all he was able to send,” said Dr. Ishikawa. “But it’s enough to tell us we have a pod in trouble.”

  Zane raised his hand. “The ones caught in the nets looked like they were keeping up with the others all right. Maybe they aren’t hurt too badly.”

  “We hope not,” sighed Dr. Ishikawa, “but don’t be fooled. Whales are large, powerful animals. They may continue swimming after they’ve been snarled; however, if they’re unable to break free in time, it can lead to serious injury or even death. The ropes can slice through their skin and cause infection. They can deform bones, cut off part of a tail, and restrict breathing, swimming, and eating.”

  “Plus, nets are often attached to other gear—traps, hooks, anchors, and buoys, like the one you saw in the video,” added Aunt Marisol. She flipped on the lights.

  “A snagged whale may be able to survive for a while,” said Professor Gabriel, “but it is a long and painful way to die.”

  Cruz couldn’t stand it anymore. “We are going to help them, aren’t we?”

  “We are.” Dr. Ishikawa clasped his hands. “Orion is at this moment headed to the specified coordinates as quickly as Captain Iskandar can get us there.”

  Cruz and Emmett exchanged looks. Emmett had been right. The ship was moving faster.

  “We should reach the bay in forty-eight hours,” said Dr. Ishikawa. “Time is of the essence. The whales will be starting their fall migration soon. Monsieur Legrand?”

  Stepping forward, the rugged French survival instructor placed his hands on his hips. “I will be leading the rescue effort. I will need several explorers who are willing to dive with me to remove the fishing gear. I must tell you this will not be an easy mission…”

  Cruz held out his left fist. Emmett bumped it with his own. They were in.

  “Any time you are dealing with a wild animal, especially one that weighs seventy tons or more and may be injured, it is dangerous work…” continued Monsieur Legrand.

  Bryndis and Dugan had spun in their chairs. Sailor, on the other side of Emmett, was leaning forward. The three of them were eagerly nodding at Cruz. That’s all the encouragement he needed. He threw his arm up. “Team Cousteau would like to volunteer. We’ll dive with you, Monsieur Legrand.”

  “Très bon! Courage. That is what I like to see.”

  Professor Ishikawa turned to the rest of the class. “We have jobs for the rest of you, too.”

  “Just tell us what to do,” said Zane.

  In a few minutes, it was settled. Team Magellan would handle dive support. Under the guidance of aquatics director Tripp Scarlatos, they would help the rescue divers safely launch from Orion and monitor their progress. Team Galileo would be spotters, using high-powered computerized binoculars, drones, and radio tracking to help locate whales. Professor Gabriel would be in charge of them. Finally, Professor Ishikawa and Team Earhart would be standing by in a smaller boat with a veterinarian to render aid to any injured whales, and to help Team Cousteau remove and recover the fishing gear.

  “Each team, please report to your adult leader’s office at four p.m.,” instructed Aunt Marisol. “You’ll get further details and instructions for your part of the mission.”

  Cruz was so pumped for Team Cousteau’s meeting with Monsieur Legrand, he could barely concentrate on his classes. However, he did manage to get an almost perfect score on Aunt Marisol’s archaeology quiz, missing only one question about stratigraphy.

  That afternoon, Dugan, Bryndis, Sailor, Emmett, and Cruz met in Monsieur Legrand’s office down the passage from Manatee classroom. As their fitness instructor explained more about the creatures they would be dealing with, he played Dr. Ishikawa’s short video for them again.

  “Right whales are slow swimmers and shallow divers,” Monsieur Legrand informed them. “However, as you can see, they are large animals, up to fifty feet long. Also, they tend to swim in tight groups of six to fifteen, which could make things challenging as we try to move into position. They are social animals, but it is important we take our time so we don’t scare them. We must remain patient and earn their trust, or they will not allow us to help.” Seeing the explorers nod, Monsieur Legrand continued. “I’m going to assign each of you a dive position. You’ll take this spot for each assessment. Once we approach a whale, you will carefully move to your place, inspect the animal for snared lines, injuries, or other issues, and report it to me via the video and voice communications system in your helmet. Bryndis, I want you to position yourself on the upper-right side of the whale, above the fin. Sailor, swim to the opposite side near the left fin. Emmett, you will take the back right, and Dugan the back left. Once you have all checked in to report what you see and I have a clear picture of the problem, I will lead you in removing the fishing gear. You must listen carefully and obey my instructions to the letter. No one does anything without my permission, comprenez-vous?”

  Yes, they understood.

  “Now, in order for us to be successful, there is one more thing—”

  “Scarlatos to Monsieur Legrand.” Tripp Scarlatos’s Australian accent crackled through their instructor’s communications pin.

  “Legrand here.”

  “I’m ready when you are, mate. Bring ’em down anytime.”

  “We’re on our way. Legrand out.” The instructor stopped the video. “Tripp is waiting for us in aquatics. We’re going to check our dive equipment. Also, I want you to go inside Ridley so you’ll be familiar with how we will exit and return from the dive.”

  Biting his lip, Cruz looked out the porthole. Monsieur Legrand had forgotten to give him a job. Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten. Maybe there wasn’t anything for him to do.

  “Wait!” called Sailor as they started to get up. “Monsieur Legrand, what about Cruz?”

  “Yeah,” said Emmett. “You forgot Cruz.”

  Their instructor let out a chuckle. “Hardly.”

  Cruz let out a breath. So Monsieur Legrand did have something for him to do. He didn’t care how insignificant it was. He just wanted to help any way he could.

  “As I was about to say before Tripp checked in, the key to a successful rescue mission lies in having a good cetacean ambassador,” said Monsieur Legrand. “That will be your task, Cruz.”

  Cruz was confused. “I’ll do what?”

  “You’ll be our cetacean ambassador.”

  That’s what he thought he’d said. What in the world was a—

  “In other words”—Monsieur Legrand clamped a firm hand on Cruz’s shoulder—“you’re going to talk to the whales.”

  THE LIGHTS were low, the blinds pulled over the portholes, as Cruz and Emmett stepped through the door labeled TECHNOLOGY LAB. It was torture for Cruz, waiting for his eyes to
adjust. He couldn’t wait to look around the place Emmett had not stopped raving about since they’d left port a week ago.

  “Hello?” called Emmett. “Fanchon? Sidril?”

  As Cruz became accustomed to the dimness, a sea of cubicles appeared. The lab was the size of two classrooms, the dividers stretching across the entire compartment. Directly ahead, in the first cubicle, a giant glass globe stood on a pedestal. Dozens of curling tubes fanned out from the center of the clear orb. It reminded Cruz of a giant Pacific octopus. A burgundy fluid bubbled inside the octopus’s stomach, the twisty tentacles bringing in and taking away the blood-colored liquid to places unknown. In the cubicle next to it, Cruz saw a robotic forearm on the table, palm up, its fingers moving to tap the thumb in slow succession: index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinkie. Repeat. Wires ran from a plain black box to the circuitry of the arm.

  “She must be in her office.” Emmett motioned for Cruz to follow him.

  Navigating the maze of cubicles, they passed gurgling beakers, spinning test tubes, rotating platforms, and more than a few baffling objects, like a half-accordion, half-pasta-strainer contraption that was expanding and contracting while filtering something that looked like beef stew. Cruz dared to pause at the only station that looked somewhat normal. Beside a microscope sat a tray of a dozen or so petri dishes. Each of the shallow dishes held a cross section of a grapefruit inside a peach-colored gel. “Weird,” whispered Cruz, leaning over the tray. “I bet you’re not dessert.” As he watched, the gel began to turn a deeper shade of orange until it resembled the coils of a hot stove. The gels in the other dishes started changing color, too. Soon, the whole tray began to vibrate. “This can’t be good,” muttered Cruz a second before the first sample exploded in his face.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Fanchon was rushing toward them, a cheetah-print scarf in her hair and long metal cylinders swinging from her ears like wind chimes in a storm. Over a pair of jeans and a candy-cane-striped long-sleeved tee, the young scientist wore a black apron with a white outline of a grinning cat. “What are you doing?”