The Merman and the Moon Forgotten

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.

“I’ve always put it back together,” Nick said.

“You did this before?” said their mom.

“One time—”

“Ten times,” Tim corrected.

“I swear, Nick Lyons,” their mom said. “You better put every wire and chip back in its place.”

“Yeah. About that.” Nick took a step back. “The experiment was a resounding success, but it sorta blew up the Accolade’s battery and—and the motherboard.”

Nick’s dad kept attempting words, but none seemed to relate to the English language. He was beet red, and his mouth looked like it was trying to decide between screaming and crying.

“What did I tell you would happen if you got your hands on one more electronic device?” their mom said.

Nick’s eyes grew.

“I’ve had it with you, freak! You’re getting the inhibitors tonight.”

“What?” Nick looked to his dad. Everything just turned really serious. Neural inhibitors were given to kids who were considered dangerous and out of control. Nick would be seventeen the next time he could string together an entire sentence.

Their mother pointed upstairs. “Get up to your rooms now! The doctor will transmit a prescription to your nannydrone.”

The brothers retreated to their bedroom.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” Nick said. “I protected you from Rocky. You know what? The next kid can ape all over you for all I care.”

“I told you I didn’t want your help. Besides, you ruined Dad’s Accolade. And for what? Another arson attempt? Sorry, dude, but electronics are the last thing you should touch.”

“It was coming together. Almost had it ready. Would have won that money, too.”

“You almost burned down a forest, Nick. Someone has to stop you.”

“If you want to make an omelette, you gotta crack a few eggs.”

“Exactly! You know who said that, Nick? Stalin said that. Stalin—who committed genocide against his own people.”

“Well—we don’t know who really said that.” Nick pounded the intercom. He had rewired it two-way, so he could eavesdrop on his parents. It came in handy when planning a sneak out.

His dad’s voice trembled. “My Accolade! That crazy punk kid took apart my Accolade!”

“I told him what I’d do,” said their mom. “He’s insane. He’s just insane. . . . Yes? . . . Um. Yeah. I need that doctor—you know, the one who gives neural inhibitors. He’s on the Medinetwork, right? . . . Yeah . . . No. We already have a file opened in the psychiatric wing. . . . Yes. We have a nannydrone. . . . Yeah, she better be able to process all forms of medication. We paid, like, a fortune for her.”

“Whatever.” Nick fell back on the bed. “It is time I leave this den of parental totalitarianism.”

“Call the national guard. The monster is loose and headed for Tokyo harbor.”

“You know what, Tim—”

“You seem distressed, Nick Lyons.” The nannydrone crept toward him.

“Now is not the time,” Nick said. “Planning my escape.”

“How might I make you happy today?” the nannydrone continued.

“Disassemble yourself,” Nick said.

“Please wait while I process your request . . .” A clock symbol appeared over her face. “I am sorry, Nick Lyons. I cannot perform such a task.”

“Of course you couldn’t. Wanna know why? That would actually make me happy.”

“Oh dear, Nick Lyons. Now my bio-rhythm sensors tell me you have been upset by an unidentified object within this room.”

“Really?” Nick smacked his forehead.

“I am formulating a solution for you, Nick Lyons,” the nannydrone offered. “This solution is brought to you by Pappy’s Popsicles. Lick your way to happiness. Due to a decreased level of serotonin in your brain, dilated pupils, and small but noticeable constipation—”

“Gross!” Tim sat up.

“You would be best served by having a Pappy’s Popsicle. Chocolate.”

The nannydrone buzzed out the room and returned with a chocolate Pappy’s Popsicle. Nick turned to his side as the nannydrone rose to meet him eye-level.

“Enjoy, Nick Lyons.”

“I don’t want it,” Nick said.

“Everyone wants a Pappy’s Popsicle.”

“I. Don’t. Want. It! I don’t want a Pappy’s Popsicle, and I don’t want a digital head floating in my face, selling me junk all the time!” Nick grabbed the popsicle and threw it.

The nannydrone spun, shooting several laser beams to intercept the popsicle fragments before they hit the wall.

“That was a close one.” The nannydrone grabbed the popsicle stick. “Cleanliness is next to happin—Please standby. Receiving a transmission from St. Mary’s Medinetwork . . . I have received your mother’s request to administer the neural inhibitor, R-5235.” The popsicle-free hand flipped like a switchblade, revealing a long, silvery needle. The nannydrone moved slowly toward Nick.

“Crap.” Nick sat straight up.

“Dude,” was all Tim could say.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” the nannydrone said. “This medication is not fatal. It will merely suppress all aggressive thoughts and behaviors. Common side effects may include dizziness, memory loss, aversion to social environments, difficulty with complex verbal communication and thinning of the hair. It is a very efficient medication, if I do say so myself. One shot will last up to seventy-two months or three years.”

The nannydrone spun around and headed toward the trash compactor. “But my primary protocol is to clean up your mess. Afterward, I will administer the drug.”

Nick stood to his feet.

The trash compactor slid open.

Nick raised his right tennis shoe.

The nannydrone held the popsicle stick over the trash compactor.

Nick kicked. Before the nannydrone could retreat from the compactor, he slammed the door.

Muffled commands came from the trash compactor. “Open the compartment, Nick Lyons. The nannydrone is in severe danger of being destroye—”

Nick tapped the button: COMPACT.

The compactor moaned, as it tried to crush the nannydrone.

“Please open the compartment,” the nannydrone repeated. “The nannydrone is in severe danger of b—eing damaged or—d—estro—Would you lik—executable file—chocoberry—R-5235—yum three-hundred and Pappy’sssssssssssszzz—”

The compactor moaned again, and then finally accepted its victim.

“You scare me,” said Tim.

An explosion of glass came from downstairs. Both boys turned to the intercom.

“Erik? Erik! What’s wrong?” their mom cried.

The door swished, and Nick flew down the stairs. “Dad?”

His dad lay in a halo of glass, still gripping his diet soda. He was lathered in sweat and blood. From what Nick could tell, he had collapsed onto their coffee table.

“Dad!” Tim yelled. “Is it the Geneva virus?”

Nick’s mom tapped her ear and shouted, “9-1-1!”

The ear piece answered, “Dialing . . .”

An electronic voice answered, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

Nick’s mom sobbed into the phone, “Erik—Erik! Something’s wrong with Erik!”

Sweat ran down their dad’s puffy red face. Tim tried to prop him up.

“Don’t touch him!” screamed their mom. “Yes? No, I was talking to Tim. . . . OK. I won’t hang up.”

Within sixty seconds, a hoverbulance’s siren descended to the front of the house. A woman with a black bag and an ambudrone met Nick at the door.

“He’s over there.” Nick turned to his dad. Blood had now moved past the glass and onto the Persian rug.

The introductory system announced: Ambulance attendant Cheryl Sierra has now entered. Condition: Healthy. Heart rate: Normal. Geneva infection levels: 0.00. Ambudrone has now entered. Condition: Unavailable. Heart rate: Unavailable.

Beep, beep.

House secure.

The attendant opened her black bag and pressed a small, thin square on their dad’s chest. She fiddled with an earpiece, paused, and pursed her lips.

“What?” Nick looked at her.

The attendant quickly placed a square piece on Nick’s chest. Cold metal pressed through his shirt. She repeated it with Tim, then their mom. The attendant paused, looked at the diet soda in their father’s hand and closed her bag.

“Was it the diet sodas?” said their mom.

“Ma’am—” the attendant didn’t answer her. “—we need to get you and your husband to the ER, now!”

Their mom croaked through tears, “Wha—?”

“Please, ma’am, follow us.” The attendant turned to the boys. “Next of kin?”

“Our Grandpa, Grand,” Nick answered. “Nikolas Lyons, the eleventh.”

“Call him now. Meet us at St. Mary’s ER.”

Another ambulance attendant came in with a stretcher. It was a whirlwind of limbs and lifting and dispatches to the ER.

Ambulance attendant Cheryl Sierra has now left the premises. Heart rate: Excited. Condition: Healthy. Geneva infection levels: 0.00.

Ambulance attendant Robert Killigan has now left the premises. Heart rate: Excited. Condition: Healthy. Geneva infection levels: 0.00.

An ambudrone has now left the premises.

Erik Lyons has now left the premises. Heart rate: Low. Condition: Critical. Geneva infection levels: 0.00.

Sonya Lyons has now left the premises. Heart rate: Excited. Condition: Critical. Geneva infection levels: 0.00.

Beep, beep.

House secure.