The Lost City of Faar (16 page)

Spader jumped to his feet and started to pace. “Bad rice? How can people die because of bad rice?”

“It gets worse,” added Uncle Press. “The agronomers are afraid it may not be the only case. If there's a problem with the food supply, then what happened on Magorran is just the tip of the iceberg.”

My thoughts immediately went back to the argument I witnessed between the two agronomers on Grallion. They knew something was wrong. The horrible reality was slowly beginning to sink in. Cloral was a territory covered by water. People relied on farmers to grow food both on the habitats and underwater. If something was poisoning the food supply, it would be beyond disaster. Compared to this, bubonic plague would seem like a nasty cold going around.

There could be only one reason for this . . .

Saint Dane. This had his stamp all over it. If the food supply went bad, there would be chaos throughout the territory, no question about it.

“We don't know the extent of the problem. Maybe it was a one-time thing and they caught it,” Uncle Press said calmly.

“Not in time to save my father,” snapped Spader. There was anger in his eyes. He wanted someone to blame for his father's death. Uncle Press and I knew who it might be, but now was not the time to share it.

It was late, so we left Spader alone. Uncle Press and I went home to form a plan. The next day was the memorial service for the victims on Magorran. We decided that after the ceremony we would join with Spader, get a boat, and travel to
Panger City to find Spader's mom. The only clue we had to go on to start tracking down Saint Dane was the strange symbol that Spader's dad left him, and Panger City was as good a place to start looking as any. With that plan in place, we tried to get some sleep.

I barely slept all night. The thought of territorywide famine made it a little hard to have sweet dreams. There were too many thoughts banging around in my head, so I decided to finish my journal to you. Writing always makes me sleepy, and this time was no different. I got as far as telling you that Magorran and Grallion had collided, and couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. So I rolled up the pages and sent them on to you. It wasn't until the next morning that I realized what a cliffhanger I had written. Again, sorry.

I laid back down on my bunk and finally got a few z's. But soon the sun was brightening the sky on a new day, the day we would leave Grallion.

The memorial service was scheduled for shortly after sunrise. I didn't know what to expect, but it turned out to be a pretty emotional moment. It took place on the stern of the habitat, away from the destruction up front. Everyone on Grallion was there. We stayed with the farm workers, the vators, who pretty much kept together in one large group. The aquaneers were lined up along the stern, shoulder to shoulder, in full dress uniform. Spader was among them. It had to be tough for him to stand there, but he did it. Good man.

The pilot of Grallion, a leathery-looking gray-haired guy named Quinnick, led the ceremony. I won't write down all that was said, but as you can imagine, it was pretty intense. He spoke about the dedication of those who serve others, and the harsh reality that all life must one day come to an end. He
spoke glowingly of the crew and workers of Magorran, and about how they would never be forgotten.

Then an aquaneer stepped forward and began to play an instrument that looked to be made from a large piece of coral. It was a wind instrument, and though it seemed pretty crude, the sound it made was sweet, like an oboe. The tune he played was haunting and sad. It was a fitting send-off to the poor people of Magorran.

But it was short-lived because suddenly, without warning . . .
boom
!

An explosion rocked Grallion only a few yards from where we stood. The crowd didn't react immediately. Everyone just sort of looked around, stunned, not knowing what was happening.

Boom! Boom
!

Two more explosions rocked the habitat, chewing up pieces of deck and dirt. People started to scatter and run for cover. We were under attack, but from where?

The answer came from Wu Yenza. She stood on the stern and yelled out,
“Raiders!”

Raiders? What were raiders? The only raiders I knew were from Oakland. I looked off the stern and had my answer. There was a ship powering toward us. It wasn't a habitat, it was a battleship, and its giant guns were trained on us. These guys weren't from Oakland.

Things were turning very sour, very fast here on Cloral.

W
e were under attack.

Most people on deck scrambled for cover and I was one of them. Uncle Press and I stuck with a group of vators who fled to the building that held most of the farming equipment. That wouldn't give much protection, but it was better than standing out in the open with bombs raining down!

As we ran more missiles pounded the deck and blasted dirt and water everywhere. Yes, water. These weren't your everyday, ordinary cannonballs. Remember, this was Cloral. Everything here had to do with water. I soon found out that the giant guns on the battleship were actually huge water cannons that fired big, dense balls of water. But when these water missiles hit, they were every bit as destructive as a steel shell. And they could fire round after round without fear of running out of ammunition. After all, their ammunition was water, and there was an infinite supply around these parts. What made it even more frightening was that there was no sound. The guns didn't let out a giant roar when they fired, so it was impossible to prepare for a strike. The first clue that a water missile was about to hit was a faint whistling sound, and then it hit.

About a dozen of us crowded into the equipment shed and scrambled to the windows to look out on the action.

I looked to Uncle Press and said, “Raiders? What's the deal?”

Uncle Press didn't know. This was a wrinkle he wasn't prepared for.

“I have never seen them attack a habitat this large,” one vator said with more than a touch of fear. “They usually prey on small vessels.”

“What do they want?” I asked.

“Whatever we have,” came the simple answer. “And they're not afraid to kill for it.”

Gulp. I looked out the window to see that the aquaneers were scrambling to defend the habitat. These guys weren't just sailors, they were trained in using weapons as well. They moved fast and efficiently as they took up defensive positions facing the incoming cruiser. But the only weapons they had were the silver rifles I saw back on Magorran. They didn't have big cannons or missile launchers or firepower of any kind that could stand up to the barrage from the raiders' huge water guns. Their rifles seemed like, well, they seemed like water pistols compared to the mighty arsenal they faced.

“Why isn't Grallion armed?” I asked the vator.

“I told you,” he answered. “The raiders have never been so bold. There was never a reason to be armed. Until now,” added Uncle Press soberly.

All my romantic notions about pirates were just blown away, no pun intended. To me pirates were charming rogues who drank grog and chased wenches and shivered me timbers and were basically comical characters in search of treasure. But these weren't Disney pirates. The guys firing on us were killers.
Bold
killers. They were attacking an unarmed farming habitat
with over two hundred people on board. But for what? There were no riches on Grallion. What could they possibly want?

Then the barrage of missiles stopped. We took a look at the battle cruiser and saw that it had pulled to within a few hundred yards of Grallion. Its guns were still aimed at us, but they were no longer firing for the time being.

The ship looked very much like a battleship from home, though of course there were no military markings. It was a light green color that made it blend in with the green water. I counted eight water cannons in all. Four front and four back. I wondered what their next step was. Were they going to board us? That wouldn't make sense because any advantage they had with their big guns would be lost once they set foot onboard. There were plenty of aquaneers with rifles to give them a hard time if they set foot on our deck. No, the advantage these bad guys had was from a distance.

Then, a booming, amplified voice came from the battle cruiser.

“Good morning, Grallion! I trust we have your attention.”

It was a man's voice and he actually sounded cheery. He could have been calling to a neighbor over the backyard fence to talk about the Yankees.

“My name is Zy Roder, pilot and chief of the good ship
Pursuit
. Perhaps you've heard of me?”

The more I listened to this guy's booming voice, the more my stomach twisted. I looked to Uncle Press and his grim expression told me he was feeling the same way. Near us, a vator had been watching the cruiser through a spyglass. The moment we heard the voice coming from the raiders' ship, Uncle Press approached the man and asked if he could borrow the telescope. The worker obliged and Uncle Press took a closer look at our new nemesis.

“If you have heard of me,” the voice continued, “then you know I am a fair man. I wish no harm on anyone.”

Uncle Press saw what he needed to see, then handed me the spyglass. I took it and looked out at the cruiser. The crew of the ship he called
Pursuit
were all on deck. There was a mix of men and women, which meant that at least raiders weren't sexist. They weren't all torn up and scuzy looking the way you think of movie pirates either. No, just the opposite. These guys looked like an organized, buttoned-up crew. But the way they stared at Grallion made me think of a pack of hungry wolves, patiently waiting to strike. Their stares were blank and lacked any human emotion, except for maybe greed.

I moved the spyglass until I found the man called Zy Roder. He stood on the uppermost deck, holding something dark that I could only guess was a microphone. Like all the raiders, Zy Roder wore the same kind of lightweight clothing that everyone wore here on Grallion. He was a tall guy, with shoulder-length blond hair that blew around in the sea breeze. You might even call him handsome. He stood with his legs apart defiantly, with one hand on his hip. Pretty cocky. This was a guy who was used to getting what he wanted. I wondered what it was he wanted from us.

But the thing that struck me most about him was his eyes. Even though I was looking through a spyglass, I could see they were the same, icy blue eyes that I had grown to fear. There was no mistake.

It was Saint Dane.

He had arrived on Cloral and taken up with a band of outlaw marauders. The question now became, what was his next move? I handed the spyglass back to the vator. I didn't want to watch anymore.

“By now you must know of the horrible disease that is
spreading throughout Cloral,” he continued. “Our food is being poisoned. Why? I have no idea. But I do know that safe food will soon grow scarce.”

This was Saint Dane all right. He was doing what he did best, spreading fear.

“Our request is simple. The food on Grallion is safe . . . so far. You have so much, and we so little. These are my terms. Load ten of your largest transfer barges with grain, fruit, and vegetables. Send each barge out to us with a single aquaneer. We will take the barges and leave you in peace.”

The farm workers around us erupted in protest. They complained that ten barges of food would wipe Grallion out for weeks. Worse, if they gave up all their supply of safe food, then what would be left for them to eat? Already, the fear of tainted food coming in from the outside was suspect. Who could blame them, after what happened on Magorran?

“If you refuse us,” Zy Roder continued, “then we will resume our attack.” The man now grew more intense. Gone was the pleasant voice of a fellow sailor. Saint Dane or Zy Roder—whatever he called himself here—wanted the people of Grallion to understand what he was capable of.

“We cannot sink Grallion, but that is not our intent. We will begin with your pilot house. It will be obliterated so that you will have no control of your habitat. Then we will destroy your docks so you will be trapped. We will target your engine rooms so you will have no power. You will be prisoners on your own habitat, with no means of escape. Trust me, friends, we know where you are most vulnerable and we will not leave until our demands are met.”

This was pure Saint Dane. He probably didn't even care about getting the food. What he wanted was to cause panic. The word would spread quickly among the habitats that the food
supply on Cloral was suspect, and that would create chaos as normally peaceful people would start to fight over the dwindling supply of fresh food. My guess is that Saint Dane probably had something to do with poisoning the food supply as well. His plan for toppling Cloral was beginning to become clear.

“I will give you one peck of time to begin the transfer,” his voice boomed. “If I see no sign of your compliance, we will open fire. So until then, enjoy your day!”

What was a peck? Was that an hour? A minute? A second? Uncle Press read my mind and said, “Twenty minutes, in case you were wondering.”

Saint Dane had one more thought. “Oh, one last thing,” his voice boomed. “Welcome to Cloral . . . Pendragon.”

Yikes. My knees buckled, which I'm sure was the exact reaction Saint Dane wanted. He knew we were here. Luckily, the other vators had more to worry about than why this pirate had given me a personal greeting. That would have been hard to explain. So instead of questioning me, they all started chattering at once. Half argued to give him the food, the other half wanted to fight. Neither choice was a good one.

“At least we know a little about his plan now,” said Uncle Press, trying to sound positive.

“Yeah, big deal,” I shot back. “What are we going to do about it?”

At that moment Spader burst into the shack. He looked around quickly until he saw us. “Press, Pendragon, come!” he shouted.