by Trudi Trueit
“Jericho Miles doesn’t scare me,” scoffed Cruz. It wasn’t true, of course. “But if you think it’s a good idea…”
Someone was knocking on the door. Cruz opened it to a worried-looking Sailor. He stepped back, and she quietly marched past him. However, the moment the door was closed, she burst, “If you’re mad at me, just say it. I can take that. I hate the silent treatment.”
“Mad? Why would I be mad?”
“Back in the library, you wouldn’t come with us to dinner. And then you gave that lame excuse about studying for our geo unit test. I was sure you were angry with me for telling you to pay attention to the tiles.”
“I’m not mad, Sailor.”
Her frown softened. “Are you crook?”
“Crook?”
“You know…sick. How do you Americans say it? Tossing your biscuits?”
“Cookies,” corrected Cruz’s Canadian roommate.
“Biscuits, cookies, whatever.”
“No,” said Cruz with a chuckle. “Not crook either.”
“So you really did want to study?”
A shadow crossed his face. It was only for a second, but Sailor saw it before he could mask it and pounced. “I knew it. Something is going on.” Her lips formed a line of determination.
“I…I couldn’t say anything with Bryndis and Dugan standing there,” explained Cruz. “I wanted to see…I mean, I thought maybe if…” He let out a long sigh. No matter how delicately he put this, he was going to hurt Emmett’s feelings. “When you said you couldn’t fix the journal, Emmett, it’s not that I didn’t think Lani and you didn’t know what you were doing, but I…well, I guess I needed to understand for myself why it was hopeless. I needed to be sure there wasn’t anything I could do. Know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh,” said Emmett, but he still looked hurt. “And are you…sure now?”
“Yes. You were right. Although while I was there I saw Dr. Vanderwick. Did you know she’s an expert on holography? She wrote a book about it.”
“She did? What’s the title?”
“Um…something about the basics and principles of holography, or maybe it was the science and practice of holography. Search her name and you’ll find it—”
“Whoa!” Sailor stepped between them. “Back up a minute. Are you both positive you can’t fix the journal? What did you try?”
“What didn’t we?” answered Emmett. “The journal’s made from bamboo and sunflower in a carbon polymer base, so we exposed it to everything we thought might spark the activation process: sound waves, radio waves, heat, cold…”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
Putting her hands on her hips, Sailor shuffled toward the door to the veranda. Emmett took a seat at his desk. He began typing on one of his three computers. Cruz sat on the edge of his bed and started taking off his shoes. He stopped to yawn. His brain and body were exhausted.
“Light,” Cruz heard Sailor whisper.
Cruz started to request the cabin’s environmental computer to increase the light level in the room when Sailor said, louder, “Did you expose the journal to light?”
“Yep,” clipped Emmett. He did not turn from his screens. “LED, incandescent, fluorescent, bioluminescent—”
“Sunlight?”
“Naturally.”
“How much and for how long?”
He moaned. “I don’t know, Sailor. Does it matter?”
“Yes. Yes!” She started toward him. “You said the journal is made from plants—bamboo, right?”
Emmett tossed her a look over his shoulder. “And sunflowers.”
“Okay. Green plants contain chlorophyll, which allows them to convert sunlight into energy, right? If you expose the journal to sunlight, isn’t there a chance that it might activate the plant-based fibers to produce a—”
“Photosynthetic response.” Emmett whirled in his chair, his glasses beginning to give off a golden glow. “You may be onto something, Sailor. Cell regeneration in a bio holo-matrix is possible. Theoretically. Studies have found that under the right conditions photosynthesis can repair, even restore, a damaged or defective segment of a holo-sequence.”
Cruz pointed a shoe at him. “Are you saying—?”
“The journal may be able to repair itself.” Emmett gave them a wide smile. “The journal doesn’t need us. It never did.”
“So, all I have to do is go up on deck, hold the journal up to the sky, and that will fix it?” asked Cruz.
“No.” Emmett’s grin faded. “The amount of chlorophyll in the paper is so small you’d be standing there for days or weeks.”
“Plus, cloudy weather would slow the process,” added Sailor. “We need to find a more concentrated light source.”
“The CAVE?” suggested Cruz.
“Maybe, but artificial light contains a narrower range of color than natural sunlight. Not enough blue and red.” Emmett stroked his chin. “What we need is full-spectrum light. And a lot of it.”
“Don’t forget water,” said Cruz. “Plants need water for photosynthesis.”
“And carbon,” added Sailor.
“The journal should be able to use its own carbon molecules,” said Emmett, “but it would need to pull water from the environment.”
“We could mist it,” said Cruz, pretending to spray a water bottle.
“That could work. I guess we could program it all into the CAVE and give it a try—”
“I’ve got it!” shrieked Sailor. “I know where we can get plenty of light and water. Come on!” She raced for the door.
“Wait!” called Emmett. “It’s twenty minutes to lights-out. We can’t just…Sailor, at least, tell us where you’re going.”
Too late. She had already disappeared around the corner.
Emmett looked at Cruz, who could only give his friend a shrug and take off after her. Cruz was wearing one shoe. The other was still in his hand, but he wasn’t about to miss this.
Sailor had a good head start. Twenty feet ahead of them, she was rushing down the passage toward the atrium. At the end of the corridor, she sped right and flew up the grand staircase. Cruz followed her up two more flights. He tried to catch her but never closed the gap.
When he hit the top of the stairs at the bridge deck, he saw the end of her ponytail swing out. She was heading to the observation deck. Cruz caught up to her just inside the room, where she had pulled up. The place was empty, thank goodness.
Catching her breath, Sailor could only point at…
Chef Kristos’s garden!
Cruz’s gaze traveled over the greenhouse that took up one end, almost a full quarter of the large compartment. Blinking against the bright lights, he whistled softly. “Solar-powered laser lights.”
“And automatic spray misters,” said Sailor. “It’s everything we need in one spot.”
Emmett was 15 seconds behind them. “Perfect…don’t just stand there…running out of time, people,” he huffed, rushing past them to the greenhouse door. Cruz and Sailor hurried after him.
Once inside the glass enclosure, they were almost immediately swallowed by an edible jungle. Hanging baskets overflowing with strawberries, peas, eggplants, and various flowers brushed their heads, while broccoli, lettuce, and red peppers sprang up from the waist-high rows of table planters. Around the perimeter, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vines clung to stakes and trellises, coiling their way up the metal-framed windows. The air was hot and damp and Cruz had to take a few extra breaths to fill his lungs. He glanced up into the circle of bright lights and misters. “We should probably go to the center to get the most light, right?”
“Uh-huh.” Emmett was fighting off a nasturtium vine clinging to his comm pin.
In the middle of the garden, Sailor slid a couple of the plant trays apart. “Here’s a spot in the herbs.” One planter was filled with the soft spikes of rosemary, while the other held long, thin stalks of blooming lavender. “It’s got good light, and it’s not directly under a mister. We d
on’t want to soak the journal.”
Taking his mother’s journal from his pocket, Cruz slipped the three-inch-by-three-inch square out of Lani’s protective sleeve. He set it flat on the table between the two trays. They all knew that touch activated the origami sequence. Cruz placed his fingertips on top of the journal.
Three pairs of eyes stared at the wisp of paper. There was nothing to do now but wait.
Sailor ran a hand through the rosemary, sending the piney scent swirling around them. “Well, at least if nothing happens, the journal will smell good,” she said.
Cruz grinned. He knew she was trying to ease the tension. On the other side of him, Emmett’s glasses had fogged over. Cruz couldn’t help but chuckle.
Sailor had seen him and was giggling, too.
Everyone went back to staring at the journal. It was so quiet. So still. So warm.
Another five minutes passed.
Cruz felt beads of sweat collecting on his forehead.
Sailor put up a hand to stifle a yawn.
Emmett wiped off his glasses. “Five minutes to lights-out.”
“You guys better go back down,” said Cruz. “Who knows how long this could take?”
“You can’t stand here all night,” said Sailor.
“I don’t plan to.” Cruz plunked himself down on the floor, crossed his legs, and slid the journal from the table onto his lap. “See? I’ll lie down when I get tired. Go on, you guys. There’s no sense in all three of us getting into trouble if Taryn finds out we broke curfew. It’s okay. Really.”
A look passed between Emmett and Sailor.
“Go!” Cruz shooed them away. “I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, but call us if something happens,” said Sailor, hesitantly moving away.
“Or if you need anything,” added Emmett.
“I will.”
An hour later, Cruz was still staring at the unresponsive journal, now balancing on his left knee. He’d taken off his jacket to use as a pillow, but he wasn’t sleepy. What he was, was warm. And thirsty.
The mini fridge in the observation area was usually stocked with beverages. Cruz could jet out, grab some water, and be back in two minutes. Five, if he wanted to cool off. Cruz got up. His right foot tingled with numbness. Sliding a corner of the journal under the tray of lavender so it didn’t float away, Cruz made his way to the greenhouse entrance. Keeping the branches of a fig tree between himself and the glass, he peered into the observation area. He saw no one. Cruz cracked the door. A blast of cool air swept over his feverish cheeks.
Ahhhhh. That felt good.
Cruz made a beeline to the little fridge at the far corner of the compartment. Three glasses of ice water later he was starting to feel less like a shriveled orange. It was a quarter to 11. Cruz had never before been up on the observation deck so late. Bedtime for the explorers was 9:30 p.m. on weeknights.
Sipping water, Cruz turned to look out the back window. The full, apricot-colored moon made the churning water of the Alboran Sea sparkle like thousands of tiny diamonds. Earlier that day, the ship had passed through the Strait of Gibraltar. They were now off the southern coast of Spain, two days out of Barcelona. The trail of glistening water was beautiful. Peaceful. Steady. It reminded Cruz of home, of lazy days when all that was ahead of him was an afternoon of surfing. He missed Hanalei. And his dad. So much. In the quiet compartment, the what-ifs began piling up in his brain. What if Nebula found out his dad was leaving clues behind? What if Cruz gave Nebula the cipher and they didn’t stick to their end of the deal? What if the greenhouse lights didn’t fix the journal? What if…?
A thin white trail zipped across the sky. The Leonids!
He had almost forgotten about the meteor shower. Cruz knew that to succeed he needed to focus on the task at hand and push the what-ifs away, but it wasn’t easy. It never was. Watching for meteors and talking to himself, Cruz almost didn’t hear the voices in the passage. He darted for the greenhouse, barely making it inside before the visitors entered the observation deck. Cruz gently shut the door, then crouched behind a potted fig tree. Cruz wanted to get to the safety of the center of the thick garden, but it was too risky. Any movement might draw attention his way. He’d have to hunker down and wait for them to leave. Whoever it was would probably not stay long anyway. It was likely a couple of crew members on a break.
The greenhouse door was inching open. Someone was coming inside!
Cruz made himself as small as he could. The best he could hope for now was that they wouldn’t turn him in to Taryn. Ducking his head, he held his breath.
A snort. “Is that your impression of a fig?”
Peering between the leaves of the tree, Cruz saw Sailor. He exhaled. That was close! Sailor was juggling aluminum water bottles and a handful of granola bars. Emmett was next to her, his arms around several pillows.
Cruz straightened. “What are you guys doing back here?”
Sailor pointed her toe to show she was wearing her pink flamingo slippers. “We’re staying with you.”
“If Taryn finds out—”
“Then we’ll all get in trouble together,” said Sailor matter-of-factly. A pair of fluffy flamingos shuffled past him.
“Taryn won’t find out.” Emmett lifted his wrist. “According to our OS bands, right now we’re all in REM sleep and happily dreaming away.”
Cruz looked down at his wrist. His OS screen read SLEEP MODE. His jaw fell. “Emmett, how did you—”
A pillow hit him in the chest. “Don’t ask.”
WITH A NOD to Scorpion and Komodo, Thorne Prescott stepped inside the rusty silo. The door slammed behind him with a bone-chilling clang. There was a chair in the center of the empty round storage building, but Marco Coronado was not in it. He was seated on the cracked cement on the opposite side of the structure, propped up against the peeling metal of a curved wall. Legs out. Ankles crossed. Hands folded.
Prescott held up a white take-out bag. “Hope you like Chinese.”
Marco didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Panic swept through Prescott. Scorpion and Komodo…had they…?
Was Marco…?
Prescott charged forward.
“Fine,” rasped Marco.
Prescott took a deep breath and let his heartbeat return to normal. He set the bag next to Marco, along with a cup of coffee, then backed up several feet so he was not close enough to be taken by surprise. “You’d better eat. We’ll be leaving soon.”
“Is Cruz all right?”
“As far as I know.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t ease my mind.”
Prescott didn’t expect it would.
“Do you really have a son?” asked Marco. “Or was that for my benefit?”
Prescott had told Marco the lie back at the Goofy Foot to gain his trust. He considered lying again, but something compelled him to honesty. “No children. A niece.”
“What you’re doing…it can’t just be for the money,” said Marco. “You don’t seem that lazy. Or cruel.”
“People aren’t always what they seem.”
After a moment, Marco reached for the bag.
The door opened behind Prescott. Scorpion leaned in.
“Cobra, we’re just waiting on the go from the boys at Gemini. Oh, and Komodo’s altitude meds. The last thing we need is a three-hundred-pound guy hurling out the window the whole way up Mauna K—”
“Do what you have to do,” hissed Prescott. “But make it quick.”
“Excuse me.” Marco was holding up a chopstick. “Can I get a knife and fork?”
“No,” growled Scorpion.
“Yes,” countered Prescott, and when his partner looked at him in disbelief, he clarified. “A butter knife. You can manage that, I think.”
The door swung shut.
Marco dipped the chopsticks into the white box. “You won’t get what you’re after.”
Prescott folded his arms and stared up at the funnel-shaped metal roof. “I think we will. If your son wants to see you alive
again, he’ll give us the cipher pieces.”
“I’m sure Cruz will do exactly as you instruct. Not that it will matter.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Only that no one can change the past.” Marco held up his chopsticks, suspiciously inspecting the fried dumpling between them. “Not even Nebula.”
CRUZ FLUTTERED his eyelids. He was lying on his side on the floor of the greenhouse, his right arm crushed under him. It hurt. His lower back was aching, too, thanks to the ceramic tile bed.
“Hi, Cruzer.”
“Mom!” He popped upright, smacking his forehead on a corner of the plant table. Cruz’s gaze went from the pointed orb on the floor to the holographic image of his mother it projected above him and back to the ball again.
It had worked! While they’d slept, the device had managed to fix whatever was malfunctioning. Cruz’s touch had triggered the identification protocol, which had confirmed his identity and opened the journal. Cruz wondered how long his mom had been standing—hovering—there. He hoped not too long, even though she was only a hologram and, technically, had all the time in the world.
Rubbing his head, Cruz looked up at her. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, too,” she said. Cruz knew it was a preprogrammed response, yet it still sent a warmth through him.
Cruz leaned in to shake his sleeping roommate’s shoulder. “Emmett?”
Rolling away from him, his friend let out a grunt.
Cruz reached to his other side. Sailor was on her back. “Sailor!”
“I’m up, I’m up,” she croaked, flinging a hand over her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Um…a quarter to five.”
“Too. Early. Must. Sleep.”
“Cruz, do you have the second piece of the cipher?” asked his mom, sliding a lock of long blond hair over one shoulder.
At that, Emmett bolted upright. He fumbled for his glasses. “She’s here…Your mom’s here…It worked. I can’t believe it actually worked!”
Sailor was slowly raising herself up onto her elbows. When she saw the image floating next to her, she gasped. “Wow! We did it! I mean it did it—”