D. MacHale - The Lost City of Faar

“Welcome to Cloral,” he said with glee. “This is my favorite territory. No contest.”

He sounded like some kind of tour guide whose job it was to make sure I was enjoying my vacation. But this was no vacation. Not even close.

“So what’s the deal here?” I asked, not really wanting to hear the answer. “Is there a war? Some impending disaster? Some evildoings that Saint Dane cooked up to make our lives miserable?”

Uncle Press gave a shrug. “I don’t know,” was his casual response.

Huh? Up until now Uncle Press had all the answers. He didn’t always share them with me, but it was good to know that at least one of us wasn’t totally clueless.

“Don’t know?” I shot back. “Why do you keep stuff from me? If we’re headed for trouble, I want to know.”

“I’m not trying to hide things from you, Bobby,” he said sincerely. “I really don’t know what’s happening here. On Denduron, I’d been living with the Milago and knew that there was civil war brewing. But I’ve only been to Cloral a couple of times. As far as I know, everything here is fine and dandy.”

“So then why are we here?” I asked with frustration.

Uncle Press looked me right in the eye, suddenly all business.

“We’re here because Saint Dane is here,” he said soberly. “He hasn’t tipped his hand yet, but he will.”

Right. Saint Dane. Back on Denduron, moments before Loor and I had made our death-defying escape from the mine shaft, Saint Dane had jumped into a flume and shouted,”Cloral!”Since the mine was seconds away from blowing up, Loor and I would have gladly followed him, except that he sent a killer shark riding a wave of water back through the flume to stop us. We had two choices: death by shark-lunch, or flee deeper into the doomed mine. We chose to run and luckily escaped through a ventilation shaft before the entire place exploded.

It suddenly dawned on me that the reason we were here on Cloral was because of me. I was the one who knew Saint Dane came here. I guess I was playing more of a part in this whole saga than I really cared to.

“Tell me about Cloral,” I asked. I figured I should at least know what to expect from this new territory.

Uncle Press stood up and glanced around the colorful, living, underground cavern.

“The whole planet is covered by water,” he began. “As far as I know there isn’t an inch of dry land anywhere. This cave is part of a coral reef that’s about sixty feet underwater.”

“You’re kidding?” I interrupted. “Who lives on this territory? Fish?”

Uncle Press laughed and reached toward one of the vines that clung to the rocks. Behind the colorful flowers, attached to the same vine, were dark lumpy-looking things. He plucked one off like an apple from a tree and tossed it to me. I caught it awkwardly and saw that it looked like a small, dark green cucumber. It was kind of rubbery, so I guess it was really more like a pickle than a cucumber.

“Break it in half,” he said.

I held both ends and snapped the strange tube in half easily. The green skin on the outside was so dark that it was nearly black, but the inside was bright red.

“Try it,” he said while plucking another one for himself. He took a big bite and chewed. I figured if it didn’t kill him, it wouldn’t kill me, so I took a bite and it was delicious! It was like the sweetest little watermelon I had ever eaten. Even the skin was good, though chewier and a bit more salty than the sweet pulp inside. No seeds, either.

“I think there may have been a time when the people of Cloral lived on dry land,” he continued. “But that was centuries ago. There aren’t any records of it. Whatever happened to the planet, no one knows. But the land is long gone.”

“So how do they live in water?” I asked while wiping the sweet juice from my chin.

“They don’t,” he answered. “They live on floating cities called ‘habitats.’ Whole communities are built on these monster barges. Some are so big you’d swear you were on an island.”

“That sounds impossible,” I said. “Where do they get food? And building materials? And — “

“Why don’t I just show you?” Uncle Press interrupted.

Good point. We could sit here talking about it, or I could see for myself. I hated to admit it, but I was kind of interested by a world that was always floating.

Uncle Press wiped fruit juice from his mouth and walked carefully across the rocky ledge until he came to a thick mound of vines near the base of the wall. He pulled them away and I saw that the vines had been covering a pile of clothing and equipment. I immediately remembered the cave on top of the mountain on Denduron where Uncle Press gave me the leather clothes of that territory. It was against the rules to wear anything from other territories, so we needed some Cloral clothes.

“I don’t get it,” I said quizzically. “If you didn’t know we were coming here, how did you know enough to have this little stash of stuff ready?”

“We aren’t alone, Bobby,” he said while picking up and checking out something that looked like a clear-plastic bubble the size of a basketball. “There are acolytes who support us on every territory. They brought this gear here.”

Acolytes. That’s who supposedly took care of the motorcycle back in the Bronx.

“Who are they?” I asked. “How come I’ve never seen one?”

“You won’t,” he answered. “At least not often. But they’re around.”

“If they’re so helpful,” I added suspiciously, “how come they didn’t help us out a little more on Denduron?”

“It’s not like that,” he said. “They aren’t Travelers. They can’t play a direct role in our mission. All they can do is help us blend into the territory. Here!”

He tossed the plastic bubble to me. It was light, but solid. One section of the globe was open so it looked kind of like a big, round fishbowl. There was also a small gizmo attached to it that looked like a silver harmonica.

“Put your head in it.”

Yeah, right. Sticking my head into that alien object is not something I’d do by choice.

“Just put it on,” he said with a smile.

Why couldn’t he just tell me what was about to happen for a change? Why did I always have to experience it myself? Oh well. Why argue? I reluctantly lifted the clear globe and slowly lowered it down over my head — until a freaky thing happened. As soon as the top of my head touched the inside of the globe, the clear dome started to change shape! I instantly yanked the cursed thing off. It immediately stopped moving and returned to its original round shape.

“What the hell was that?” I exclaimed, totally freaked out.

Uncle Press laughed and reached toward the pile of stuff to get another clear globe.

“The Clorans are pretty advanced,” he explained. “They’ve got some pretty incredible toys.”

“Like torture devices that clamp on your head and suck out your brain?”

“No, like anything to do with water. Water is their life. They’ve learned how to use it in ways you can’t even imagine.”

He put the second globe over his head. Instantly the clear dome began to writhe and change shape. In a few seconds the sphere went from totally round, to a perfect formfitting shell around his head. It was unbelievable. The thing had taken on the shape of Uncle Press’s head. He smiled at me from inside the clear mask.

“They’ve figured out how to create solid material from water,” he said while tapping the shell that had formed around his face. It was hard again. Amazing. I could even hear him clearly, though his head was encased in… whatever it was encased in.

“And this thing here” — he pointed to the silver harmonica thing attached at the back of his head — “this is a filter that takes in water, breaks it down atomically, and feeds oxygen into the mask so you can breathe. Cool, aye?”