The Otherworldlies

by Jennifer Anne Kogler

  “If you two get seated, we can be on our way,” Mr. Kimble said, businesslike, pointing to the leather recliners.

  Sam looked at Mr. Kimble, puzzled. “Are we on the Air Force One of eighteen-wheelers?” he asked.

  “Planes can be too easily traced,” Mr. Kimble said. “So we must use ground transportation.”

  “Sir?”

  A creature had come through the curtain and down the steps, and was now standing in front of the group. Patches of mud-colored hair grew from its compact body. Where there was an absence of hair there was rough skin the color and texture of tree bark. The beast was Fern’s height, but must have weighed three times as much. He had ears like small bugles, shoulders the size of sandbags, large flat feet, and toenails the color of newly cut grass. He was wearing a pair of battered OshKosh B’Gosh overalls. In the center of the creature’s face, one large black eye blinked as it scanned the room.

  “Sir?” the creature asked again. His voice, high and thin, reminded Fern of Sam’s when he plugged his nose. The voice was strange enough on its own, but coming from the mouth of this squat beast, it seemed stranger still.

  “Sir, I just wanted to make sure that it was permissible to begin our route.”

  “Of course, Telemus, please proceed.”

  The creature, hindered by his large feet, waddled back up the stairs and closed the curtain behind him.

  “What in the—,” Fern began, overcoming her initial speechlessness.

  “Shhh,” Mr. Kimble said, putting his index finger to his mouth. After pausing for a moment, he began.

  “Telemus is a Cyclops. They are known for being extremely sensitive, so please refrain from making any comments. The last thing we need is a cranky Cyclops on board.” Fern and Sam were expecting Mr. Kimble to laugh, but he did not.

  “Telemus is young, so he’s extraordinarily susceptible to bouts of moodiness,” Mr. Kimble continued in a low voice. “They take fifty years or so to grow to full size.”

  “How full is that?” Sam asked.

  “Most are over eight feet tall.”

  “What kind of animal is it related to?”

  “Cyclopes are not animals at all. They are loosely related to the giant family, to be precise. By the time they’re fully grown, they’re not very useful in a setting like this because of their height.”

  “How old is Telemus?” Fern asked.

  “Telemus is about your age, I believe.”

  “Why haven’t I ever seen one of those before?” Sam said, still in disbelief. “Where are we?”

  “Cyclopes have existed for centuries. However, they’ve been hunted so viciously in recent times, few remain. Those that do remain live underground and in hiding.”

  “Why have they been hunted?”

  “Because human beings make a practice of destroying what they cannot explain. Cyclopes are a reminder of a past left behind long ago.”

  “What does Telemus do?” Fern asked.

  “He runs all of the equipment here on the Atlas,” Mr. Kimble said. He looked tired from answering questions, but then perked up a bit after a long look at Fern and Sam. “I can show you the control room, if you like,” he said, trying to act gracious, but not knowing how.

  Sam and Fern nodded in agreement. Mr. Kimble got out of his seat and pulled the curtain back. Bright light streamed out of the opening. Sam and Fern followed Mr. Kimble, stepping up into the smaller room.

  Sam and Fern could have sworn they were back outside the Atlas. Bushes were growing out of planters jutting from every inch of wall, crawling up the walls in an evenly spaced pattern. White flowers adorned most plants. The abundance of sunlight made the room hot and steamy. There must have been over twenty bushes, and each was ignited with a blue flame surrounding an image. Every image was different, but each was shaped in a circle. Fern realized exactly what she was observing: Sagebrushes of Hyperion!

  She looked up. A glass panel, tinted green, bubbled out like a huge skylight, letting in the California sun. No wonder it felt as if she were outside. Telemus the Cyclops sat in the middle of the space in a swivel chair with two feet of maneuvering room on each side. Telemus’s eye roved across each bush. It looked as if he was taking them all in at once. He turned his chair from one side to the other, keeping his amazing eye attuned to everything.

  “We call this the mobile greenhouse,” Alistair Kimble said. Fern thought he made a pretty lousy tour guide and had about as much passion as Mrs. Stonyfield did when she talked about why she had become a teacher. But he did seem to be trying. “It allows us to monitor events while we travel. We also get clearer images with real sunlight. It’s our most effective surveillance system.”

  “Does, um, Telemus monitor everything all the time?” Sam asked, having to stop himself from saying “the monster” in place of the Cyclops’s actual name.

  “Things are not always as they seem. Telemus does with one eye what we would need twenty eyes for. He’s exceptional at processing a lot of information at once,” Mr. Kimble said. “Cyclopes have a real talent for that. Of course, there is a few seconds’ delay.”

  “So these are all Sagebrushes?”

  “Yes, they are. I understand you both got an education on their powers from Miss Lin,” Mr. Kimble said, displeased.

  “What is he keeping track of?”

  “Anything and everything. Activity in all the districts, what’s going on at headquarters, the rival movement, abuse of powers. We switch what we monitor from time to time, which means we must cultivate new bushes depending on the intelligence we get from our network, whether it be from vigilantes or district heads.”

  “Don’t people mind that you’re spying on them?”

  “It’s for their own protection,” Mr. Kimble said dismissively. “Cyclopes can also smell a Blout coming a mile away, which we find tremendously helpful.”

  “That’s because they stink, sir,” Telemus said without taking his eye off the bushy walls, still swiveling back and forth.

  Fern looked down, hoping no one witnessed the process of her cheeks turning red. Her veins flowed with nervous energy. She inched away from Telemus so he couldn’t smell the Blout in her.

  “We should return to our seats,” Mr. Kimble said. “Mr. Bing informed me before we left that it may be a bit bumpy.”

  Sam and Fern each took a leather recliner. As soon as Fern sat down, she realized how tired she was. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

  “Pssst, Fern.” Sam was leaning over Fern’s table, speaking in a low voice. “Turn on your monitor.”

  Fern looked to her left and pushed the toggle switch on the bottom of the black screen. It flashed on, displaying Joseph Bing, flannel shirt and all, in the driver’s seat. Mr. Kimble waved at Fern and Sam from their screens.

  “Now hit alternate view,” Sam said, leaning over again. The pictured changed to the view from the passenger side window. Sam and Fern remained captivated by the video feed as they passed the nuclear power plants at San Onofre. At this hour, the Pacific was gray and the sand looked damp. It wasn’t long before a train passed by, half-empty, gliding along the tracks between the interstate and the ocean.

  “I see you’ve figured out how to work the view box,” Mr. Kimble said. He’d meant to disconnect the feed before the children boarded, but in the confusion, forgot. Normally he would have worried that they’d be able to discern the secret location of New Tartarus. But Kimble knew Kenneth Quagmire would see to it that they remembered nothing from their trip. “We don’t have any windows in the back,” Mr. Kimble explained. “Telemus installed the cameras himself.”

  “Are we headed south? On the five?” Fern asked.

  “Yes,” Mr. Kimble said. “New Tartarus is the unofficial Vampire Alliance headquarters. It also contains several other facets of the V.A.”

  They were just south of Camp Pendleton Marine Base and the racetrack at Del Mar. Before long, they could see the San Diego skyline in the distance. The truck was soon bending along Mission Bay in San Die
go.

  The screen fuzzed over and then went blank. The truck began to sway. Fern could tell they were gathering speed. She put her recliner upright and gripped the armrests.

  The screen blinked back on. They were zooming along beside San Diego Bay, heading straight for Coronado Island. The Coronado Bay Bridge looked like a giant blue snake teetering on white stilts above them. The truck didn’t slow down, barreling ahead, getting closer and closer to the water’s edge. With a sharp turn, they were off road, bouncing through the gravel alongside the street. Fern looked over at Sam, who had closed his eyes and turned almost completely white.

  “We’re headed straight for the water!” Fern said, watching the screen. Mr. Kimble calmly closed his eyes and leaned back, staying absolutely still.

  “THREE SECONDS TO IMPACT!” Telemus bellowed from the other compartment.

  A forceful slap hit the front of the truck. The noise was deafening. The sound of the truck crashing into the azure water of San Diego Bay obscured Fern’s piercing scream. The water thundered all around them. The truck rolled back and forth and Fern felt upside down for a moment. The lights and monitors flicked off completely.

  Fern felt as if she were on a roller coaster with only loops and no lights. She wanted desperately to teleport somewhere, like back to her bed, but knew she would never forgive herself if she left Sam here alone to fend for himself.

  The rumble of the motor stopped abruptly.

  The cabin was now still, silent, and dark. Seconds passed. Fern tried to find her brother in the darkness. She wished that the Commander hadn’t allowed her to come on this death trip. She wanted to be anywhere but inside the grocery truck. She wanted to scream out to Sam that she was sorry for making him come along. All this was her fault. Vlad wasn’t half as scary as sitting in the dark, listening to the truck creak beneath them as if it had fallen into a black hole. There was no escape. They were doomed.

  “Bing,” Mr. Kimble finally shouted through the darkness, “you’re out of practice.” He sounded disgusted. “That was the absolute worst approach I’ve seen in a long time. You almost missed the tunnel.”

  “Took a few seconds to get the rust off, for sure, Alistair,” Mr. Bing’s voice answered back, full of the humor that Mr. Kimble’s lacked.

  “I apologize for not warning you children,” Mr. Kimble said, now addressing the cabin. “But I think one’s better off if one doesn’t expect it.”

  Fern couldn’t believe that everything in the truck had remained in place.

  “Where . . . ,” Sam said, out of breath. “Where are we?”

  “We are most likely under the Hotel Del Coronado by now,” Mr. Kimble said.

  “We’re under Coronado Island?!” Fern said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Kimble said, knowing that the children would not be permitted to remember any of this.

  “Where is New Tartarus?” Sam asked. “Under Coronado?”

  “It starts at North Island and continues from there.”

  “The naval base?”

  “There’s no safer place for an underground complex than underneath a military base, I assure you,” Mr. Kimble said.

  “FIVE SECONDS TO ARRIVAL!” Telemus said, his high-pitched voice filling the cabin.

  “Hold on this time!” Mr. Bing’s voice boomed over the rattle of the compartment.

  The truck lurched forward as Sam’s and Fern’s seat belts tightened around their torsos. The truck then jerked backward as the tangle of the twins’ bodies slammed back against their seats. The lights blinked on.

  “Whoa,” Sam said, brushing himself off as he got up and tried to get reoriented.

  Mr. Kimble, still sitting, rose and calmly walked to the back doors of the van. He opened them. Bright light flooded into the truck. Anxious to be on solid ground, Sam and Fern followed the light. Fern hopped out first.

  They were in a concrete room. The Atlas, dripping water but still in remarkably good shape, was parked in the center of the room. Despite the abrupt stop, not one of the eighteen rubber wheels had left a skid mark—just a damp trail. Gray concrete engulfed them. Fern estimated the ceilings at fifteen feet. Large oak doors stood on both sides of the room. Over one, there was a sign that read BAY TUNNEL in large brass letters. Over the other, there was a sign that read NEW TARTARUS in the same brass lettering.

  Joseph Bing stepped out of the driver’s seat and knocked on the New Tartarus door. A small grate slid open. One midnight eye, complete with a gray lid and thick dark lashes, stared out at the new arrivals. Telemus waddled to the grate, which stood at exactly his height—about four feet, five inches.

  “Greetings, Telemar,” he said. “It is I, Telemus. I have in my possession District Head Alistair Kimble, Vigilante Bing, and two visitors who request the right to be granted entrance.” His voice bounced off the concrete walls and filled the room.

  “Greetings, Telemus. Tell Mr. Alistair Kimble to come forward,” said the creature behind the door, whose voice sounded much like Telemus’s.

  Mr. Kimble put his eyes flush against the grate.

  “What’s going on?” Sam whispered to Bing, who was standing next to him.

  “Telemar is sniffing him, specifically his eyes, to make sure he’s not a shape-shifting Blout. They’re always doing anything they can to infiltrate headquarters,” Bing said. “Here, they call him the Nose. He’s got the best sense of smell in all of New Tartarus.”

  Fern thought of Vlad’s first appearance at Pirate’s Cove.

  “Why are they talking like that?”

  “Cyclopes are very particular creatures; they pride themselves on professionalism and formality. You’ll never see a Cyclops break protocol. A lot of people call Mr. Kimble a two-eyed Cyclops behind his back because he’s the same way,” Bing whispered to the children.

  Mr. Kimble stepped back and summoned Bing to the grate. Telemus escorted him. Then it was Fern’s and Sam’s turn. Fern held her breath, scared senseless. They stood frozen as Telemar sucked in mouthfuls of air. They could both feel his hot breath as he exhaled.

  Telemar slid the grate closed. The two oak doors opened out in front of him. Fern had escaped detection, once again. Maybe she wasn’t a Blout, at least not yet.

  Mr. Kimble and Bing immediately walked through. Fluorescent light swamped the open door. Sam and Fern exchanged nervous glances and walked forward. Once everyone was inside, Telemus and Telemar closed the doors behind them. The thud reverberated loudly off the concrete. Telemar climbed back on his stool and resumed his watch.

  The drabness of the place was uniform. The ceiling was high and the walls were unadorned gray. Fern, who had been expecting Oz beyond the oak doors, wondered how many cement mixing trucks it must have taken to create this fortress. Long rows of buzzing lights hung from overhead. The room looked like a warehouse; Fern imagined Costco would look much like this if it were emptied out. There were six pairs of white windowless sliding doors with red scrolling letters above each set. Two dozen people were scattered around the doors. Everyone was middle-aged and professional, some with briefcases, wearing skirts or neutral-colored ties. Fern imagined that these tired, pale people looked much like the people who took the subway during rush hour in New York City. The scrolling signs announced what Fern figured was a destination and a departure. The one closest to her read W.A.A.V.E. HEADQUARTERS—4 MINUTES.

  When a gray-haired woman with glasses and a striped suit noticed Sam and Fern, she couldn’t take her eyes off them. She tilted her head at Fern and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “Alistair?” she questioned, taking a few steps toward the new arrivals. “Alistair, is that you?”

  Mr. Kimble stepped toward the woman.

  “Millie,” he said without any excitement. “Good afternoon.”

  “Well, well. Alistair Kimble, before my very eyes.”

  “How is Outreach treating you, Millie?”

  “Oh, you know, more of the same, doing the best I can, and all that.” Millie’s voice was high-pitch
ed and fast. Every time she spoke, it was similar to the moment before someone breaks into song during a Broadway musical. “It’s been a few years since you’ve been to NT, hasn’t it? When was the last time—it must have been the VC four years ago? Right about the time you stopped talking to me. Are you still the DH of the GCD?”

  Millie, it seemed, was overly fond of abbreviations and acronyms, which frustrated many less-than-knowledgeable eavesdroppers, Fern included.

  “My work keeps me aboveground for the most part,” Mr. Kimble said.

  “You know, all my friends warned me about you. They told me I should never get involved with someone like you, who’s always putting the job before everything else. But you could have called, at the very least—just to say good-bye.”

  Mr. Kimble appeared to be in pain.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said, standing more stiffly than before. Mr. Kimble followed Millie’s eyes to Fern and Sam, one freckled and blond, the other pale and dark. His salt to her pepper.

  “Well, how did you go and pull a thing like that off? I’ve never seen a child here before. Are these yours, Alistair? Did you find a woman crazy enough to marry you?” More and more people were turning away from their doors and looking toward Mr. Kimble and Millie. Mr. Kimble took two steps back.

  “They are not mine,” Mr. Kimble said, offering up very few answers. Bing stood nervously by, fidgeting with his collar.

  “Oh my word! They’re alleged Unusuals! Don’t tell me you’ve become mixed up in all the hoopla,” Millie said, her voice so loud it was bouncing from one concrete wall to the next. Her glasses magnified her eyes and made them appear as large as poker chips. “I’d heard there was an Unusual in the western United States, but two—well, that must be it! There’s no way Chief Quagmire and his cronies would let them in otherwise.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise to jump to conclusions,” Mr. Kimble said in his most patronizing voice.