Deep ocean six, p.10
Deep Ocean Six, page 10
Black zombie? In broad daylight? Jools steadied Beckett while his mind charged ahead. Mob, as yet unclassified . . . Possibly dangerous . . . definitely hostile. Some sort of mod?
Stormie fitted an arrow to her bow and drew back the string, locking in her aim.
“Don’t shoot!” yelled Frida, recognizing the invader even as Ocelot whirled around the fungus patch up the hill. The novice horsewoman gave up, vaulted from her upset mount, and ran for the beach. “It’s Meat!”
Now Turner’s features came together in Jools’s head: buzz-cut hair, barely past skull length; bulky torso, encircled by blackened mushroom doughnut; antagonistic expression, peeking out from whatever dark goo covered his face. It was definitely him. “Sergeant! You’re back!” Jools said with delight, before he could stop himself.
Turner’s clothing and visible body parts had also been washed with the inky stain, rendering even his tattoos invisible.
Stormie trembled as she put her weapon away. “I nearly gave you some unwanted body piercings,” she said to him.
“What the heck happened to you?” Rob demanded. “And what’s that dang rocket boat doing out there?”
Jools saw the whites of Turner’s eyes flash as the sergeant blinked into the sun. “Can’t a guy take a breath around here?” the dripping, panting sergeant complained.
As always, Kim put the needs of the afflicted man before her own curiosity. The horse master slid down from Nightwind and fetched a bucket of water and a length of wool. She ran to Turner and offered him a soaked rag. “Moist towelette?”
Having caught the familiar scent of the man, the horses had gotten over their fright. So had the troopers. Everyone converged on Turner, and the drill was forgotten as they escorted him to the shelter to change.
“Ran into a shoal o’ squid out there,” Turner explained, wiping the sludge from around his eyes. “Seemed like they all squirted me at once.”
“And the diamond?”
“The griefer had it on him, all right.”
Turner carried on answering the troopers’ questions, but Jools tuned out their talk. Shoal of squid . . . shoal of fish . . . What else? Shoal, shallow. To shoal something would be . . . to make something shallow . . . “That’s it!”
He came back to the present. His cavalry mates sat at the table. Every pair of eyes rested on Jools, waiting for enlightenment—except for Turner’s, which flashed in annoyance since the group’s attention had shifted from him to the lieutenant.
“The Mystery of the Materializing Sand Blocks . . .” Jools murmured.
“You’ve solved it?” Kim prompted.
He grinned. “I’ve an idea how they got there, at least.” He paused. “Someone, or some thing, is soaking up the ocean brine . . . with sponges!”
Rob pursed his lips. “Come on, Jools. Do you know how big a sponge would have to be to wipe up a spill the size of an ocean?”
“In your old world, perhaps. In the Overworld—or more specifically—in the deep ocean biome, highly absorbent sponges naturally spawn in ocean monuments.”
Rob was still skeptical. “Then why don’t they automatically suck up the whole sea?”
“Because they spawn wet. You need a furnace to dry them out. Then you can use them for stuff. Therefore, a sentient being of some sort must be wielding them from somewhere out there.” He waved an arm at the watery horizon.
“But why?” asked Frida.
“That remains to be seen,” Jools said, satisfied he’d at least made the first move in cracking the bizarre case.
“Then why are we seeing more dry land here?” Stormie asked, still hung up on the optical illusion.
The strategist was certain of the answer to that. “Think about it. If you soak up a marine block anywhere in a body of water, the whole will be reduced in aqueous volume by exactly that much space. Even if more water in the immediate vicinity flowed back in to fill that space, the quantifiable lack of H2O would have to show up somewhere. In this instance, at the shoreline. We simply didn’t realize that the missing water blocks would reveal the solid blocks that lay beneath them—somewhere or other.” He sat back smugly and batted his eyes at Turner. “Now, Sergeant. You were saying?”
“I was sayin’, that I got us a prisoner who might have the answers to all our burnin’ questions.”
This was good news. “And what else have you got?” Jools prodded, bringing up the topic on everybody’s mind. “What about the diamond?”
Turner cleared his throat and looked away. “Well. Truth is, there was a little problem with that.”
*
The sergeant told them that he’d lashed his life preserver to the retreating powerboat. When it dropped anchor, far out to sea in a deep ocean biome, he’d snuck onboard. Then he took the captain by surprise and demanded the return of the battalion’s loot. The gems—including the UBO’s prize diamond—were spread out on the boat’s foredeck, where the griefer must have been counting them. The two men fought over the diamond, but neither of them could keep a hold of the slippery stone, and it wound up overboard. Turner had finally subdued Whitney, but lost the rare red diamond.
His words rekindled Jools’s longing to hold what was arguably the single most valuable item in the Overworld. It burned like lava in his belly. He began muttering to himself.
The other troopers processed the information in silence.
Stormie appeared convinced that the escapade could’ve happened the way Turner described it. Kim looked like she hoped Turner was telling the truth. Frida’s expression was unreadable, and the captain’s was downright distrustful.
Finally, Jools erupted from his seat. “Are we really supposed to believe you wrestled the stone away from old Whit, only to drop it and lose it?” He stared at Turner incredulously. “You’ve taken it! Admit it! You took it and hid it, and now you’re sitting right there, telling us you haven’t committed bloody daylight robbery!”
Turner’s mouth turned down, and hurt—not rage—filled his eyes. “Well, that makes me real sad, Lieutenant. After my great personal sacrifice and . . . restraint.”
“Restraint? In not taking the diamond for yourself?” Stormie said.
“That’s right,” Turner answered. “Had it in my hot, little hand, too.”
“Then how did it leave your hand?” Rob grilled him.
Turner said innocently, “There was a . . . tussle. Other guy went for it. One thing led to another, and the stone just kinda . . . sank. Dead away.”
Jools could picture the diamond flying through the air like a scarlet prism. It would’ve caught the sunlight, casting deep red rays, and then hit the water, floating for an instant, before finally submerging into the cloudy deep.
“And you’re telling us you didn’t go after it?” Jools asked.
“You didn’t pocket it,” Rob continued, disbelieving, “and come back and tell us otherwise?”
Kim looked pleadingly at Turner, begging him to be truthful.
But it was Frida who said, “He couldn’t have done that.”
Rob eyed her, clearly questioning how she could know what happened.
“He couldn’t have done that, sir,” she repeated, “because Turner can’t swim.”
This sank in. Stormie finally said softly, “And the ocean is deep.”
Now the sergeant came to his own defense. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ll wade in water up to my knees. And I’ll paddle around on top. But I ain’t goin’ in the deep end without a boatload of potions and a dry towel waitin’ for me when I get out.” The tattooed mercenary had never come clean about the extent of his aqua phobia before.
“Then you didn’t take the gemstone!” Kim exclaimed.
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t want to,” Jools mumbled.
“Hey, pal. Speak for yourself.” Turner gave the quartermaster a knowing look.
He’s onto me! Not that I would really stoop so low as to abscond with UBO property . . . or would I? Jools had never felt such a strong pull toward riches. This must be how chronic gamblers felt. He suddenly had insight into Turner’s guiding philosophy. I see how a man might cross the line for such treasure, he thought. Then, the next second, he added, but I don’t want to be that man.
Turner grunted. “Ain’t somebody gonna ask me about that boat out there? And the valuable prisoner that I single-handedly brought in?”
No one needed to. The sergeant detailed what had taken place after the scuffle over inventory. Turner discovered, as Jools had said, that the other player was all talk and no action. “Seemed to know you, though. Said he’d killed you once. An’ that there’s reason enough to get a love letter from me,” Turner growled.
Jools’s eyebrows shot up.
“You killed him?” Frida asked.
“Just acted like I might. Thought he’d have some useful information.” Turner blew out a breath. “Turns out the guy’s got so many cheats enabled, torture was . . . less effective a threat than usual. So, I just knocked him out and tied him up. Rifled through his stuff.” He glanced at Jools. “You’ll like this: he’s got Bluedog and Rafe on his Friends list.”
Jools nodded soberly. “Doesn’t surprise me. Old Whit is the lad I told you went barmy for loot when we first started playing. Judging by his mode of transportation, and his modus operandi, he’s continued his sorry ways and lost every shred of a conscience.”
“What should we do with him?” Rob asked.
“You’re asking me?” Jools tugged at the cuffs of his tweed jacket. “If it were up to me, I’d sling him from the yardarm.”
“Whatever that is,” Turner muttered. “Does it have tats?”
Jools looked at him. “It’s not an arm, per se. It’s part of a ship. It—never mind. What we should do is find out how much Whit knows . . . and whether he can point us toward that diamond.”
Turner folded his decorated arms. “Now yer talkin’.”
“Someone better go tow that rig in to shore,” Stormie suggested.
“Jools?” Rob said.
“Aye, aye, Captain.” The quartermaster nodded in anticipation and spoke with a note of malice in his voice. “It’ll be jolly good to see my old mate again.”
*
IN A PAST LIFE
Babysitting. As usual. With Dad away on a business trip, Mum had slipped off to her habitual card playing tournament, leaving poor Jools to nanny little Ian. The boy was a nine-year-old ticking time bomb. The only way to defuse him was to keep him busy—which didn’t make for a relaxing after-school break before hitting the homework and then the pillow.
It wouldn’t be so bad entertaining His Royal Highness if it weren’t for the oppressive rules that went along with the chore. While Mum seemed to have no guiding regulations for herself, the boys’ after-school laws in her absence were many: No raiding the icebox. Only one hour of television or online gaming. No going out, and—worst of all—no chums allowed. That especially meant girls, or he and Jaspreet would be hanging out right now doing something fun, like working on their Mathlete problems.
“Joolsy!” Ian’s reedy voice pierced his brother’s pouting reverie. “I want a biscuit. Now.”
“You’ve already eaten a half dozen. You don’t need another.” Or it’ll mean my neck.
“I’m having it!” Ian stubbornly insisted. Jools knew it was either let him, or take him to the mat. He didn’t argue. Yet.
Jools sighed. He was beastly hungry. On Wednesdays, the school refectory served its horrific version of Boeuf Bourguignon—as though using a French name made the gristly beef in lumpy gravy more delicious. He’d taken a few bites before creating a replica of Warwick Castle out of the mess and snapping a picture of it, which he posted on one of his social media channels.
What he really wanted to do now was work on the extremely detailed Lego fortress he was building—and to nibble on crisps until he was blue in the face. This satisfying pastime could only be made more rewarding by sharing it with a couple of close friends. But, given the household rules, that scenario was totally off-limits.
His cell phone rang. He reached for it immediately. The police car siren ringtone Jools had selected made every call seem urgent. The number ID showed a call from his mate, Speed.
Jools answered. “Speak.”
“Oi.”
“Oi.”
“Up?”
“Bug.”
“Over?”
“Nah.”
“Twerp.”
“Later.”
Jools hung up. He could tell Speed thought him a ninny for staying home again. Speed’s parents let him decide how to spend his free time, so he filled it by pursuing his latest mania. Sometimes he asked Jools along for the ride. Last month, it was indoor rock climbing. This month, it was a new game he’d become obsessed with. Jools often had to beg off. Speed couldn’t understand why his friend followed rules that no one was around to enforce, and was beginning to wonder why, himself.
He half-heartedly called his brother away from the telly. “Time’s up!” The lad had been watching cartoons since they’d gotten home from school.
“Inna minnit!” Ian screamed when Jools called again.
The cell phone’s siren went off once more. Number? Whit. Answer? Well . . . why not? Better than nothing.
“Speak.”
“Here’s the thing, Jools. And don’t say ‘no’ before you hear me out. You want to make some money, don’t you?”
“Well, I—”
“Then shut up and listen.”
Here it came. The next in a long string of daft fund-raising ideas by the world’s youngest professional con man. If Whitney made it out of secondary school without getting thrown in lockup, it’d be a miracle. “What is it this time?”
“Cat food.”
“Shove off!”
“I told you to hear me out. This is so simple, it’s stupid.” Jools could hear him chewing and swallowing something, followed by slurping noises. “We set up a booth at one of those fancy cat shows—out in the car park, so we don’t have to pay for it. Every twit there will be a ready-made customer. Who doesn’t want to buy the best for their dear pet moggy?”
Me, Jools thought. The family cat ate better than he did. As if to underscore his superiority, Mister Mittens crept up and arrogantly rubbed his oversized black-and-white head against Jools’s legs. Then he raised his bottom in the air for a scratching. When the human ignored him, he gave himself a good scraping against the coffee table.
“Here’s what we do,” Whitney continued. “We mark up the price of a tin of cat’s-meat to double the cost. We promise to donate the proceeds to some sad cause, like starving orphans with incurable diseases in underdeveloped countries. They’ll sell like hotcakes.”
“But how do we profit from sending a few quid to some homeless baby hospital on some distant continent?” Jools asked.
“We don’t.”
“I thought you said we were going to make some money.”
“We are—we don’t bother with the charity. We pocket it. The cat gets fed. Everybody’s happy.”
“Except for the poor, hungry children waiting for checks in the mail that never come.”
“Yeah,” Whitney said. “There’s that. Look, I’ll come over and we can draw up the adverts.”
“Dunno, mate. Not really my cup of tea.”
“You’d rather make peanuts for pushing a pram around all day?” Whitney asked.
“Ian’s nine,” Jools said. “He hardly needs a pram.”
“Well, you’re going to need one if you don’t stop acting like such a mummy’s boy. This childminding is sending you back in time. You’re regressing. You’ll be the one in nappies soon.”
Jools felt the insult even more keenly than the advances of Mister Mittens. Whitney’s proposal, however, was irrelevant. He couldn’t go out. He couldn’t have friends over. He couldn’t do much of anything, really. Except . . .
“Say, Whit. Why don’t you come over and help me finish building my Fortress to End All Fortresses? I should be free tomorrow afternoon.”
“Better idea. Why not ring up Speed and Jaspreet, and the four of us play some hardcore Survival online right now? Mumsy never need know.”
Jools glanced across the room at Ian, glued to the television set. He checked the clock. Mum won’t be home for hours yet. “Hang on, Whit.” Jools walked into the kitchen, opened the snack cupboard, and rummaged about. A whole sack of onion-flavored crisps!
He threw caution to the winds. “All right. You’re on.”
CHAPTER 12
IN THE NEXT LIVES
BEFORE JOOLS COULD SAY “BOB’S YOUR UNCLE,” he’d been sucked into the game and stood knee-deep in rotting flesh, somewhere in the plains biome.
“Yes!” he cried triumphantly. “Did you see that, lads? Two zombies with one blow.” He wiped off his iron sword. “I’m going for three, next.”
The words had barely escaped his lips when a creeper walked up to him, hissing, and began to expand in size. Green and white sparks shot off the thing. The last thought Jools had before not having any more thoughts was: Green and white . . . School colors! Nice combo. Then the creeper exploded, taking the novice player with it.
Jools checked the screen and noticed that his hot bar had changed. He tried to reset it with no luck. He messed with the Options menu, but succeeded only in changing his skin. He hit RESPAWN. Having just learned about the need to craft a shelter and sleep in a bed, Jools respawned immediately next to his still-living friends. “What happened?” he asked. “Where’s Jaspreet?” He could see Speed smelting something in a furnace and Whitney stacking gold ingots in his inventory. But neither of them answered. He tried his question again, this time typing it, and received the following reply:
LordWhit: ID yrself.
Ools961: It’s Jools, mate. Who else?
LordWhit: Says Ools961—Dunno any Ools—whaddabout u Speed?
XPSuperheroboy: looks diff 2
Ools961: I switched skins somehow. And I backspaced over the J in the name thingy and couldn’t change it.
XPSuperheroboy: howdowe know its u
Ools961: Okay . . . we three had Mr. Sutton as form tutor last year.
Following a few more exchanges, LordWhit and XPSuperheroboy—Speed—acknowledged him, but insisted on calling him Ools.
