Nikolas and Company: The Merman and The Moon Forgotten (7 page)

“Would you like to be one?”

“Agatha would like it.”

“Agatha?”

“Yes,” Yeri said. “Agatha is my
sweetheart. But she won’t marry me on the account of, well, my
belly, to be honest. She will marry nothing less than a hero. And
Agatha made it quite clear that a hero does not have an “amorphous
midsection”. Afraid I’m destined to live out my days with
Mother.”

“I need a hero of high quality to take
a message to the Huron City Council,” said Nia. “It must be someone
who is not Merrow, one whom the fouls could not smell.”

“
Oh . . . well, honestly,
ma’am, it being the holidays and all . . . and, er, my dear mum. I
mean, I . . . forgive me. When you asked for my help, I imagined a
ride free of charge or lending a horse. But all this? More than I
can handle. Nuus doesn’t see too much in the way of adventure.
Once, when I was no bigger than a leviathan’s pimple, there was the
scourge of the three-headed chicken. It was a bit frightening at
first. One head breathed fire; the other two breathed chicken feed
and pond water. But it turned out when the first two heads spewed
out fiery chicken feed, the last one would put it out.
Counterproductive in the end.”

Nia leaned in. “Agatha, right? Well,
Yeri. You will trim up that hero’s physique within the
month.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

Yeri paused, saw Agatha’s flirtatious
eyes flash across his mind, and then clapped his hands. “Always
wanted to holiday in Huron!”

Nia smiled and reached out to her
husband. “Love. The greatest motivation.”

Lir squeezed her hand and immediately
picked up a squid pen and scroll. “Because our kind guards the
treasure of the brother worlds, we carry a special citizenship
under the city of Huron, and with it, the protection afforded her
citizens. The Merrows are in need of that protection. Within this
scroll is a secret to which only Merrows are privy. Our enemies,
the Dujinnin, have discovered it and mean to exploit this secret.
If we are exposed, it will destroy all Merrow kind. I now entrust
this secret to you and to the Steward of Huron, Nikolas Lyons. He
sits on the city council under The Roggen Tree.”

Yeri noticed a guard moving toward him,
holding a large pearl.

“We must have full assurance you will
not betray us, Yeri.” Lir’s voice dropped. “This is a
pearl-of-devotion. It will rest itself in the lining of your
stomach. If you betray us in any way, this pearl will turn your
skin to algae and your insides to seaweed. It will be a long,
painful death, to be sure.”

Yeri looked at the
iridescent hand of the guard. Something like a conscience reminded
the stagecoach driver he was about to take
another
oath. Was this really a good
idea?

“Big bugger, isn’t it? Heh, heh,” Yeri
said.

“If you are loyal to our kind,” said
Lir, “then take, Yeri, and swallow.”

With a sigh, Yeri picked up the pearl.
“A bit of harjuice?” he asked the guard. “Or maybe a swallow of
harchoco to wash it down?”

The guard’s face remained
stolid.

“Right. I see.” With a sigh, Yeri set
the pearl-of-devotion between his teeth, hoping it was
chewable.

Krrekkkk.

It wasn’t chewable.

So, with watery eyes, Yeri
swallowed.

“Now,” Nia breathed in deeply, “you may
read the message.”

Yeri bit his bottom lip as he slowly
unscrolled the seaweed parchment.

To Your Honor, Steward of
the City of Huron and its surrounding provinces, Nikolas Lyons.
This document contains the folly of the Merrows.

Yeri began to read out loud. “This
secret is the shame of our kind. To state it plainly, we
are—”

Yeri choked on the words. “We are . .
.”

Six • R-5235

Both boys lay on their beds. They were
shimmering red, and their hair was tinted with blond white
highlights. Tim lay sideways with his mouth slightly open. Nick’s
determined expression remained locked on the plastic alloy
ceiling.

“Good afternoon, Nick Lyons,” came a
motherly tone.

Nick shifted to his side, moving his
determined expression from ceiling to nannydrone. The drone was
nothing more than a white box with two multi-purpose arms and a
holographic head of a middle-aged woman. Its job was to replace any
and all responsibilities required of their parental
units.

“It has been brought to my attention
that you have been put on house arrest,” said the nannydrone.
“Lucky it wasn’t jail, you know.”

Nick shrugged. “Mom and Dad
have the fire chief’s bank account number. And
that’s
how the world
turns.”

“Well. My bio-rhythm
sensors, which are sponsored by Pappy’s Popsicles, tell me you are
quite frustrated, and we just can’t have that. What
you
need is a Pappy’s
Popsicle.”

Nick fell back with a
groan.
I REALLY need to get off this
planet.
Probably should stop hearing voices
in my head, then. What did that woman say?

Steward.

Nikolas.

Huron.

Rones.

Peril of us all.

Steward.

For the next hour, the voice
banged around his head like a really good song or bad commercial.
Nick supposed he should’ve been worried about the failed invention
or the fire chief who threw out words like “Prozac,” “loud music,”
and “threat to all plant and animal life in a fifty mile radius.”
Which wasn’t fair, not really. Nick wasn’t psychotic; he never
enjoyed torturing small animals. It was just that he was, well,
optimistic. And sometimes that optimism led to the singeing of a
tree or two. Not that it really mattered. If you twisted your
ankle, a dozen ambudrones would be right there. And if you
accidentally set a tree on fire, pyrodrones would sweep in and have
it out in minutes. Your every need and whim would be provided for
you . . . well, if
you
were a “civil”. If you twisted an ankle and had the
unfortunate luck of being a refugee, BioFarm Corporation would
lower your life expectancy by a year and send you a pamphlet
directing you to make a cast out of old T-shirts and
clay.

Seriously?
Nick thought.
What kind of
world lets thousands of refugees die everyday from lack of access
to clean water when, just across the canyon, civils can receive a
new heart as part of their outpatient surgery?

In other words, Nick’s
parents.

When their grandfather, Nikolas Lyons
the Eleventh, set up a bank account with a never ending supply of
money, his parents took early retirement and moved to one of
Colorado City’s suburbanhoods where everyone was exactly the
same—greedy, self-serving consumers. His parents hadn’t worked for
five years now. Instead, they spent their life globe-shopping while
burning through Grand’s trust fund.

But Nick wouldn’t get sucked
in.
What did Grand always say?

“Arise, Nikolas, and take your place
among the clouds.”

The house computer
introduction system announced:
Sonya Lyons,
identified. Heart rate: Excited. Condition: Healthy. Geneva
infection levels: 0.00. Erik Lyons, identified. Heart rate:
Excited. Condition: Healthy. Geneva infection levels:
0.00.

Beep, beep.

House secure.

Nick heard the clop of boots. Fast
voices echoed downstairs.

Beep,
the intercom alerted.

“Nick and Tim!” Their mom shouted
through the intercom. “Get your freaky pyromaniac rears down here
now!”

h

Over the mantle was the holographic
image of an Asian news anchor in a three-piece tweed suit. “Reports
coming in from the villages of the African Federation to the most
northern region of Alaska have confirmed that we are, indeed,
experiencing the second greatest outbreak of the Geneva virus.
There are two hundred and seventy-eight thousand confirmed deaths
reported throughout the Global Union. As of last May, more
marriages have ended by the Geneva virus than divorce. The U.S.
will open its thirty-fifth intranational refugee camp by month’s
end. A bill is currently in the international council to replace
refugee fences with walls, no longer allowing refugee minors to
cross its bord—”

A computer voice cut off the
broadcaster.
Forgive the interruption, but
the bio-rhythm sensors indicate a hostile confrontation between a
Sonya and Erik Lyons, and their two sons, Nick and Tim Lyons. Would
you like me to record the tele-holo for another time?

“You bet,” their mother said
in her twangy, southern accent. She held two large shopping bags on
each hand like the Lady of Justice. Fingers flared, sending both
bags to the ground. She shoved her sunglasses into her hair, giving
the impression of a blond peacock that just got back from a
shopping spree. “Oh. My. Gosh. Like, seriously, Nick. Are you and
Hannibal Lector pen pals or something? This is so beyond
irresponsible.
Your
son, Erik. Your son is mentally ill.”

Their father was bedecked in
his faux gangsta diamond-rimmed sunglasses, an extremely big orange
T-shirt, and a hat that read:
T.H.U.G.

“Dawg . . .” his father said, snapping
his finger. A housedrone whizzed into the room holding two diet
soda bottles. “Come on, dawg. I thought you were ma’ gangsta,
bro.”

In case one was wondering, yes. Nick’s
mom and dad had the collective maturity of a
sixteen-year-old.

“Erik and I were sitting there . . .”
their mom started, while opening the diet sodas and passing one to
their dad. “And I’m like in the middle of a leg wax, and guess
what? The fire chief calls me. The fire chief? Again? And they’re
telling me you’ve burned a forest down or something? Whatever,
Nick. Seriously. What. Ever.” She tipped her head back and downed
half the bottle.

“The pyrodrones were there in thirty
seconds flat,” said Nick. “The machine singed like ten trees, and
maybe an azalea. They’ll inject it with growth therapy, and it’ll
be good as new.”

Their dad smacked his lips after an
equally deep guzzle from the soda and shook his head. “You both
trippin’.” He pointed to them while squeezing in a little air
DJ.

“
Hey. It’s not my fault,
Dad, er, bro-Dad.” Tim pointed to Nick. “He’s trying to build an
invention to raise money so he can go home.”

“We had a deal.” Nick gritted his
teeth.

“Yeah. We did,” Tim snapped. “And you
broke the deal. I told you I didn’t want help with Rocky. And—and
he got into your stuff, too, Dad. Took your solar battery and
memory chip.”

“My stuff? What do you mean,
my
stuff
?”

“He was in the garage—”

“Doing what?” His dad stood
up.

Nick leaned into his brother.
“Seriously, Tim. You do not know pain.”

Tim didn’t offer up any more
words.

“Doing WHAT-TA?” His dad took off his
sunglasses. “I know you ain’t touching my Accolade, Nick? I know
you ain’t. What did I say? What. Did. I. Say? I said to stay on
your side of the garage. You don’t see me all up in yo’ junk?”
Their dad’s sandals flapped quickly as he marched into the
garage.

“It worked, though,” Nick called after.
“The solar battery worked. I stored the light in it and shot it
out.”

“
I so don’t care if it
worked.” Their mom followed. “Keep your freaky hands off of Erik’s
stuff. It ain’t yours. Wait until I tell your
granddaddy.”

The garage door beeped.

“Whaaa . . .” their dad’s voice dried
up.

“Nick!” His mom screamed, and he heard
the shattering of a diet soda bottle. “What did you do to your
dad’s Accolade—are you insane?”

Nick had completely dismantled the
engine.