The Octopus Effect (36 page)

Simon had to repeat his story several times as his friends struggled to understand what had happened.

They didn't doubt his explanation of his battle with Sirabetta; the evidence was all around them. More than half of the trees and bushes of Dunkerhook Woods had been torn to pieces or badly burned during the struggle. Fortunately, the fight had been far enough away to leave his friends unharmed.

They weren't too surprised by his ink-spitting ability; it fit in with his octopus-powers-theme. As for what Simon learned about Aleadra . . .

“Sirabetta's mom?” Alysha said. “That's pretty lame. I mean, cut the cord, lady! Let your daughter fight her own battles.”

The part they had trouble grasping was that whole Future Simon bit. He showed them the way Sirabetta now changed back and forth in age when too far from him, which only added to their amazement. Even considering the week they'd had, it was a pretty abnormal thing to witness.

“Normal?” Simon asked. “No offense, but we've left normal far behind.”

“True, true,” an aged man's voice said. “Normal and even strange are left by the wayside when you deal with space-time.”

“Ralfagon!” Simon, Alysha, Owen, and Loisana shouted at the same time.

Targa leaned in toward Flangelo. “Is that their grandpa or something?” she whispered.

“Grandpa?” Eldonna said, ambling along just behind Ralfagon. “Have
you
got a lot to learn.”

Simon introduced everyone, and Targa gave Ralfagon a respectful apology. Her dealings with Aleadra had taught her not to take any ex-Keeper lightly.

“No offense taken,” Ralfagon said. “Now, young Simon, it seems you've been busy with your new role as Keeper.” He gazed around the wreckage of the woods. “I think we have to work on your self-control, though.”

Simon and his friends took turns describing their adventures thus far, ending with Simon once again explaining what Future Simon had told him.

“Ah. What a frightening warning from your future self . . . most alarming, really.” He rubbed his chin.

“How did you know to come find us here?” Alysha asked.

“You'd be amazed just how much noise your little scuffle made for ears that are attuned to hear it,” Ralfagon said. “I'd have been here sooner, but the sound gave me quite the headache. Wound up programming the Gateway to the wrong setting.”

Eldonna sighed. “We ended up in Amsterdam, where the Order of Physics used to meet centuries ago.”

“Yes. That place certainly has changed,” Ralfagon said. “Not that I was in the Order back then. I don't think so, at least,” he added.

“So what do we do now?” Simon asked.

Ralfagon frowned. “Simon, I'm afraid that is up to you; you are the Keeper of the Book of Physics, the holder of astounding Biology powers, and the captor of one very ill-tempered, age-changing villainess.” He gestured to Sirabetta. “I trust in your skills and your wisdom.”

“Hmmm. You've redecorated since I've been here last.” Everyone turned to see Gilio and his own Book.

“Gilio?” Ralfagon said in surprise. “How fortunate that you showed up!” He put a hand to his head. “Wait, I didn't call you, did I?”

“We could definitely use some first aid,” Simon said.

Gilio grinned as he gave Ralfagon a friendly embrace. “I didn't think your Book called me here for my advice on tree care, Bloom.”

Alysha rolled her eyes. “Everyone's a comedian, today,” she muttered.

“The Book?” Simon and Ralfagon said at the same time, while the
Teacher's Edition of Physics
floated and flashed blue in greeting to the
Teacher's Edition of Biology
, which flashed green in response.

“Ralfagon, you wouldn't believe the things Simon has been achieving with that Book,” Gilio said. “Not to mention my own. Beyond anything I've ever heard of.”

Simon smiled and looked away, uncomfortable with the praise.

Alysha rubbed her back. “Didn't someone mention healing?” she asked.

“As you can see, you're definitely needed here,” Eldonna said to Gilio.

Gilio smiled widely and gave a showy bow to Eldonna, who blushed. He used one of his formulas to sedate the captured villains completely, and then he tended to the injured while Simon and his friends relayed all that had happened.

“I wish I could do something for the woods,” Gilio said as he surveyed the devastation. “But that would take far more energy than I have right now.” He frowned at the unconscious Aleadra. “She was my Keeper,” he said with a sigh. “A good friend and adviser.” He shook his head. “Sad.”

“Worse, what do we do with them?” Simon asked. “We can't hand them over to the Board of Administration.”

“No, we certainly can't,” Gilio said. “And frankly, I'm not sure if it's safe to take them prisoner in the domain of Biology. There might be more traitors in the Order. And who knows what other tricks Aleadra has up her sleeves.”

“I'll bet the BOA freed the traitors we already turned over to them,” Owen said.

Ralfagon patted Simon on the shoulder, ducking under the still-unconscious, still-gravity-wrapped Sirabetta bobbing in the air above him. “My boy, you've got your work cut out for you. But I will do all I can to help you.”

“You know we're in,” Alysha said.

“Yeah, to the Order of Chemistry or wherever,” Owen said.

Kender frowned. “This is turning out to be a lot more dangerous than I thought,” he said. “I almost died. We all did.”

“If the Board is behind Sirabetta, nothing's going to be safe,” Simon said.

Targa folded her arms. “So what's the plan?”

“If someone can keep an eye on these bad guys,” Simon said while gesturing at Krissantha, Preto, and Aleadra, “I'd say the next step is Chemistry. Alysha, Owen, and I are supposedly away on a school trip for at least a few more days, so we can go. We'll get these tattoos off Sirabetta before she kills someone. Maybe get some info out of her along the way. After that, who knows? We'll have to figure it out as we go along.”

Standing there in the shattered remains of Dunkerhook Woods, they put together the beginnings of a plan. The world as they all knew it had changed, and it could be a long time before things got back to normal.

But at last Simon knew he could handle this. His friends and he were up to the challenge; they were stronger, wiser, and more resourceful than just a few short—actually, they felt very long—days ago.

And no matter what the future held, Simon Bloom knew he was ready to lead them.

I sighed as the image of Dunkerhook Woods faded away and the green light went out. This Chronicle of Simon Bloom was over.

I was staggered by how much Simon and his friends had faced, and by how much lay ahead. I wondered if they'd visit again before going to the Order of Chemistry.

I turned away from my Viewing Screen and recalled something Sirabetta said. She mentioned having me “taken care of.” And she'd said it in a tone that did not imply a nice muffin basket. What could she have meant? Hopefully, her current difficulties would keep her too busy to come after me.

There was a knock at the door. Was it Simon and his pals already? As I opened the door, my smile dropped. “Willoughby Wanderby?”

He aimed his formula at me, spinning me violently into my living room. Luckily, I struck my reclining chair, which was padded enough to keep me from harm.

Wanderby stomped into my living room. “So you're the spy helping those fools fight us. I have a message for you from Sir. It will involve a bit of dying, though.”

“Er, how much is a bit?” I asked.

Wanderby gestured and I spun again, this time crashing into the sofa. Once more a rather soft landing, but I was running out of comfy spots to bounce off of.

“How did you find me?” I asked as I rose to my feet. I hoped to get him talking until Simon and his friends could come to my rescue.

“No more secrets for you, Narrator,” Wanderby snarled.

My Narrator abilities kicked in; they'd been working all along, but my terror had kept me from noticing. Now I realized exactly what I needed to know: after waking up from Simon's bug attack in the jungle, Wanderby fled the Biology domain by a prearranged escape route and got in touch with his mysterious contact. Then Sirabetta got word to him to deal with me. Apparently she was quite put out by my narrating her activities.

Everyone's a critic.

Now Wanderby intended to eliminate me, ambush the kids, and free Sirabetta.

I grabbed the first thing in reach and held it out in front of me as a shield. Unfortunately, it was a sofa cushion, which Wanderby spun away from me.

Very well,
I thought. If I was to, as they say, “go out like that,” I'd do so fighting. I planted my slippered feet firmly on my carpet and raised my fists in a boxing stance. It wasn't a particularly effective stance—I have no idea how to box—but the message was there. I would battle this ruffian until the end.

About five seconds, I reckoned. Ten if I was lucky.

Wanderby again gestured, but this time I didn't spin off into something with a loud crash. Instead, I felt a tingling in my feet.

“What?” he shouted. “How did you do that?”

“Me?” I asked, clueless. “Perhaps you're too tired to use your formula?”

Wanderby flicked a hand at the kitchen, and my top-of-the-line refrigerator (stainless steel, built-in ice maker) spun into—and through—the cupboards across from it.

“That was uncalled for!” I shouted. “What did my kitchen ever do to you?”

Wanderby tried his formula on me again, and again I did not budge. There was only that tingle.

“So you've found a way to resist my formula,” the fleshy man bellowed. “I'll have to do this the old-fashioned way.” He raised his fists which, I couldn't help but notice, were larger and more menacing than my own.

“Oh, that's quite enough of that,” a clipped British voice said.

Wanderby and I both turned to my doorway through which, to my delight, Miss Fanstrom was striding.

“Mr. Wanderby, I must ask that you stop harassing my Narrator,” she said.

“Miss Fanstrom?” Wanderby asked. “Why do you keep showing up at moments like these?”

“All part of the job, Mr. Wanderby.”

Wanderby aimed his formula at Miss Fanstrom, but like me, she was unaffected.

“Your job? As principal?” he asked in clear confusion.

“No,” she said as her magnificent column of hair stretched out and walloped him across the jaw. “Keeper.” Once, twice, three times, her hair struck until he sank to the carpet, unmoving.

“I didn't want to do that,” Miss Fanstrom said. “It's dreadfully tedious to have the same villain defeated the same way in two different Chronicles. But that's the problem with history, I suppose.”

“What's that?” I asked.

“Oh, you know,” Miss Fanstrom said. “It repeats itself.”

“Ah,” I said. And then I utterly failed to come up with anything else to add.

“It's good that you planted your feet,” Miss Fanstrom said. Seeing my confusion, she pointed to my feet. “Those are standard-issue Historical Society Narrator slippers, Mr. Geryson. With feet planted, you can't be moved in them, not even by Mr. Bloom's gravity-coils. Of course, he could probably lift the floor up with you.”

I glanced down and wiggled my toes inside my slippers. “Really?”

“Tut tut, Mr. Geryson. Haven't you read your handbook?”

I blinked, remembering I'd only read about how to get free movies on my Viewing Screen between Chronicles. I certainly hadn't seen anything about slippers.

“Clearly,” she said, “you should take it now.” She pointed to my bookcase. “It's there, between an old television directory and a rather worn Harry Potter novel.”

Once I'd found it, Miss Fanstrom nodded, her hair immobile. “Come on, we don't have all day. We've got to put Mr. Wanderby in proper custody, seal your apartment off, and get on with our role in all this.”

“Our . . . role?”

“Oh, Mr. Geryson. Have you not been paying attention?”

I nodded, shook my head, and finally shrugged. I was still trying to digest the fact that Willoughby Wanderby had come here—
here
—and attacked me.

“That's precisely my point,” Miss Fanstrom said. “The rules are crumbling in the face of all this change. Upheaval, really. Terribly hard to do a good Chronicle in the midst of that, I assure you. And with the Board of Administration involved?”

“It's true, then?” I asked.

“You saw it there, straight from the lips of our dear Mr. Bloom the Older. I've suspected things were amiss, but now I have confirmation. And we must not be idle.”

“We mustn't?”

“No, and that should please you. Weren't you whinging about wanting to lend a hand to your friends?” She gestured to the Viewing Screen. “Quickly now, gather a travel bag. Only the essentials . . . but include your handbook and your portable Viewing Screen. Whatever else happens, you're still a Narrator.”

“Oh, certainly,” I said, still trying to process all this.

“And don't forget to bring a tin of that delicious vanilla mint tea you've got,” Miss Fanstrom continued. “Simply delightful.”

“No . . . rather, yes, or . . . let me just change clothes, first,” I stammered.