Nikolas and Company: The Merman and The Moon Forgotten by Kevin McGill Read Free Book Online Page B

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.