Didn't think so. That mouthy six-, I mean seven-year-old—with a will of iron and all the calm reasoning power of your average rabid squirrel. Between that and her occasional bids to become the flock leader, she—was cruisin' for a bruisin'.
John and Dr. Akana pointed off into the distance and started to swim in that direction. Fang and I followed, because we sure didn't have any other options. Ahead of us were hills of coral or rock or something and a zillion fish swimming in and around and darting in and out of shallow cavelike places. Dr. Akana had told us that there were some volcanic caves in the waters around Hawaii, and I guessed that was what we were looking at.
But no Angel and not even a trail of bubbles to follow. We were all carrying powerful flashlights and now shone them into the caves, watching as fish startled over and over again. We saw lobsters, too many different kinds of fish to identify, corals, sponges, a couple of moray eels poking their heads out of their holes. But no Angel.
I was starting to get really mad, and this tank on my back made me feel awkward. The fact was, when it was just the six of us, Angel really listened to me and wanted to stay close by me. Now that we were surrounded by grown-ups who were giving us food and taking us on adventures, Angel didn't seem to need me as much. It hurt.
I flicked my light around a cave, saw nothing bird-kid-like, and started to back out. I glanced around for the others… and realized I was totally alone.
And way, way deep inside a cave.
I'd been caught up in my musings and had not seen the group moving off somewhere else. Backpedaling quickly, I looked right and left, searching the dark water for flashlight beams. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't even see the cave entrance. I must have wandered in there and gone around corners without realizing it.
Crap.
I deliberately slowed my breathing and tried to calm down. I got into this cave; I could get out. I had enough air in my tank for about half an hour, I thought. I've been in worse situations. I just needed to settle down and backtrack.
Of course, backtracking works best when there are footprints to follow, or when the terrain has landmarks and is therefore recognizable. It does not work when the only trail is bubbles, and every single rotten cave wall looks exactly like every other single rotten freaking cave wall, and there are only surprised fish to ask for directions and—oops!—I'm not a freaking telepath!!!
An underwater scream is so much less satisfying and effective when it is done into a regulator, I discovered.
Picturing Fang recovering my drowned body, I swam carefully back in the direction I thought I had come from. None of it looked familiar, and none of it didn't look familiar.
It all looked the same.
There was no light coming from anywhere, no sign of my fellow divers. I pictured my funeral, saw Nudge choking back sobs as she threw flowers on my coffin. My throat closed, and tears welled up in my eyes, which made my mask fog up.
I swore loudly into my regulator and cleared my mask the way I'd been taught. When I could see, I again tried to steady my breathing and take stock of where I was.
That's when I realized that I was looking ahead at two caves, where a branch veered off. Had I traveled down one of the branches, or had I come from somewhere behind me—should I turn around?
Let me rephrase that question: If my life were a corny horror movie, and the heroine was lost and alone, trapped in an underwater cave, what would happen next?
If you guessed, "She drops her flashlight, and it hits a rock and breaks, leaving her in utter darkness," you would be right.
But I bet you didn't guess the part about an attack by a giant octopus.
62
JUST SIGN IT." The second-in-command pushed the paper across the table.
Dr. Valencia Martinez looked at the woman. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back again, and she was so tired. At least her actual hunger pangs had gone away after four days without food. Now she just felt weak and sick and like she wanted to sleep for a very long time. "No."
The second-in-command sat back. "All you have to do is sign and then appear on camera denouncing your work at the Coalition to Stop the Madness. Then you can eat and drink, and we will return you to your family."
Just the idea of eating actual food made Dr. Martinez feel sick. "No. I believe in the CSM. We're destroying our planet, and it has to stop."
The second-in-command was careful not to show her frustration and anger. Instead, she nodded at one of the M-Geeks standing guard. It moved forward smoothly, its wheels making no sound. It reached out an arm, and a long, thin screwdriver-like thing extended from the end. It touched the skin on Dr. Martinez's arm and emitted a shock.
She jumped but stifled a shriek of pain. The tool left a small red mark on her arm, next to all the other small red marks. I look like I have the measles, she thought with rising hysteria. Think about something else, she told herself. Be somewhere else.
The small, stuffy room seemed to fade away as Valencia looked past the second-in-command, out through the small, thick window. The water outside was dark: the only light came from the powerful beams of this underwater station. Dr. Martinez wished they would just shoot her out into the water, the way they had the fourth-in-command. It would be heavenly out there, quiet and cold and wet, and as soon as she was out there, it would be over. She wouldn't have to worry anymore. They couldn't hurt her anymore. She could sleep.
Something enormous and dark moved through one of the beams of light. Valencia blinked, seeing that it wasn't a whale. What on earth was it? It was alive, not a machine, but like nothing Valencia had ever seen or heard of. It was… an abomination, a grotesque mistake.
And suddenly, everything clicked into place, everything made sense, and she knew why they had kidnapped her, why they were holding her, and why they desperately needed the CSM to stop its protesting.
"If you don't want to save yourself," said the second-in-command, "you might want to save your eldest daughter."