The Final Warning Read online

  You’re off course. Correct by three degrees, south-southwest.

  I shifted my left wing slightly and adjusted our course, and the others followed me. An hour later, we were at our coordinates. Which corresponded to a private landing strip carved into the middle of a thick woods, not far from Pittsburgh. A small, gleaming white jet sat on the lone runway. Two men in orange jumpsuits were moving traffic cones, yellow flags tucked under their arms. It all seemed oh so familiar, if you know what I’m saying. I mean, how many secret landing strips are tucked into hiding places all across America? Why isn’t someone keeping track of this stuff?

  I paused in midair, my eyes narrowing. Then I saw my mom come out of the plane, looking up at the sky, shading her eyes.

  “Doesn’t look very trappy,” said Nudge.

  “No — but be on guard, just in case,” Fang said.

  I nodded and angled my wings back along my body, losing altitude fast. I didn’t know what was waiting for us, but I was ready to find out.

  26

  “MAX!”

  I hoped I would never take my mom’s hugs for granted.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her. “I thought I wouldn’t see you for a while.”

  “Me too,” she said. “But Jeb and I have come up with an unusual possibility for you guys, and we wanted to see if you were interested.”

  “Unusual how?” asked Fang.

  “Well, sort of a science trip,” said my mom. “A science trip where you would work with scientists in a pretty remote place. We think it would be kind of fun for you guys, plus you would be useful to the scientists, plus this place is so remote that we think you’d be safer than usual while you’re there.”

  “Huh.” This was an interesting idea. I’d been wondering what our next step would be, and here it was, being offered to me. My mom was actually recommending it to me, and unless she’d recently been replaced by an evil clone (possible but unlikely), that meant it was probably a good idea.

  “Where’s this remote place?” Fang asked.

  Mom grinned. “I’d like to keep that a secret until you’re almost there. To help you keep an open mind. And now I’d like you to meet one of the scientists.” She turned to gesture to a woman waiting by the plane’s entrance ramp.

  The woman was a couple inches shorter than me, with blond hair in a single braid down her back. Though her face was unsmiling, her eyes roamed over us hungrily: the bird kids, the mutant freaks, something she’d never seen before. She blinked when Iggy put Total down on the ground, and I got the feeling she really hadn’t known what to expect from us.

  But then, most people don’t.

  “I’m Dr. Brigid Dwyer,” she said, stepping forward and holding out her hand. She seemed awfully young to be a doctor.

  “I’m Max.” I shook her hand, and I swear, she looked at mine like it was cotton candy. Then she realized it was just a hand, and the excitement faded a little from her eyes. “What’s this science field trip about?”

  She nodded to the jet. “I’ll explain once we’re on board.”

  -Uh-huh. “How about you explain before we get on board?” I asked pleasantly. Yes, Mom had recommended it, but that didn’t mean I had gone brain-dead.

  Since this was her first Max encounter, I gave Dr. Dwyer a couple moments to find her sea legs.

  “Or we could all split now,” I clarified.

  “Dr. Martinez” — she gestured to my mother — “has recommended you for a . . . rescue mission.”

  “Do tell.” I crossed my arms over my chest, knowing that the flock was scanning the area intently for any signs of danger. “What — or who — are we rescuing?”

  “The world?”

  27

  I DON’T KNOW how many of you have been on private jets, but golly, they’re sweet.

  “It’s a baby plane,” Angel whispered when we first got inside the dollhouse-like interior. “It’s going to grow up to be a seven forty-seven someday.”

  It was small but very lush, all decked out, similar to the other private jet we’d been on recently. Big flat-screen TV, cushy sofas and armchairs, thick carpeting beneath our feet, little curtains on the little windows. Much nicer than most places we’d stayed in.

  Mom had stayed on the ground, and it had been hard — again — to say good-bye to her.

  Fang returned from checking out the galley and nodded to me: all clear back there. Gazzy and Iggy had gone forward to the cockpit, and they held the door open to show me a startled pilot, copilot, and navigator. None of whom gave off instant “I am evil” vibes. Total trotted around sniffing everything, and call me crazy, but that actually made me feel safer.

  It’s okay, Max, said my Voice. This is part of the bigger picture. You’re being used, but for good this time.

  Oh, that makes it all worthwhile, I thought sarcastically. Being used for good is so much better than being used for evil. The operative words are still “being used.”

  The Voice was silent.

  “Please, sit down and be comfortable,” said Dr. Dwyer. Like we could avoid it. “Fasten your seat belts, just for takeoff. As soon as we’re in the air, you can have refreshments.”

  The flock and I buckled ourselves in, as did Dr. Dwyer.

  “Whose plane is this?” I asked.

  Dr. Dwyer looked up. “It belongs to Nino Pierpont,” she said, and my eyebrows went up. Everyone knew he was the world’s richest man, richer than any country, company, or family anywhere. So we were either in good hands or totally screwed. Only time would tell. I hoped Mom knew what she was getting us into.

  Total jumped up onto the sofa, and Angel buckled his seat belt. Dr. Dwyer watched silently, and I saw her eyes roving over Angel’s bulky jacket as if she were wishing a wing would suddenly pop out.

  “So where are we going?” I asked. “Please tell me someplace warm. I’ve had enough cold weather this winter to last me a lifetime.”

  “South America,” said Dr. Dwyer, her eyes not meeting mine. “Argentina.”

  “Rain forest?” I guessed. Argentina was warm, right? This was one of those times when a little schooling would not have been amiss. They turned up every now and then.

  “No,” she said. “We’ll be taking a boat from there.”

  “A boat?” Fang asked. “To where?”

  “How about something to eat?” Dr. Dwyer undid her seat belt and stood up.

  Fang and I looked at each other, then nodded.

  We agreed: Be on guard.

  28

  “ARE WE THERE YET?” Total grumbled as I held him in my arms.

  It was nighttime in Argentina. Cooping up six bird kids in a weensy plane for hours had been a mistake on Dr. Dwyer’s part. We’d gotten twitchier and twitchier as the long flight went on, and when we finally touched down in San Julián, Gazzy had burst through the emergency exit, setting off alarms and making the inflatable ramp deploy.

  We had then resisted her efforts to get us into a car. Yeah, yeah, we’d signed up to save the world, but that didn’t mean we had to agree to being in a small enclosed space again.

  Which was why we were flying low over Dr. Dwyer’s Jeep, trying to stay out of sight of the scarce traffic on this winding, narrow road. It was dark, cold, and windy. Maybe parts of Argentina, like up north, were warm, but down here close to the tip, it was cold. Great.

  In just a few minutes, we were at the ocean, the same ocean that we’d swum in off the East Coast of America. But this was the South Atlantic Ocean, and that had been the North. This part of the ocean had chunks of real ice floating in it. I gritted my teeth, beginning to get why my mom had kept our destination a secret.

  Dr. Dwyer drove her Jeep onto a broad dock. A large boat was tethered at the end of it, or maybe it was a small ship. Who knows? The Jeep stopped, and Dr. Dwyer got out, peering up at the sky, looking for us. We circled high above the area, searching for signs of danger, but everything was quiet. Finally we came to gentle landings about thirty feet from her. Total immediately jumped
down and began sniffing the dock.

  “You really can fly,” Dr. Dwyer said softly, almost to herself.

  I shook out my wings, feeling the heat from exercise course through them.

  “Well, it’s not just an elaborate hoax,” I said.

  “It’s . . . very beautiful,” she said, then seemed surprised at herself for saying it. Smiling slightly, she shook her head and began to walk with us toward the boat. “I’m sorry. I know being able to fly wasn’t your choice, and I know only some of the trauma you’ve endured because of it. But to me, on the outside, it seems both beautiful and enviable.”

  No one had ever put it that way before, and I didn’t know what to say. She sorta seemed to get the whole pluses/minuses thing of being a bird kid. Not many people did.

  “This is our research vessel,” said Dr. Dwyer, pointing at the waiting boat. “We’re from the International Earth Science Foundation.”

  Frankly, “research vessel” seemed like a twenty-five-cent name for a ten-cent boat. It was big, maybe a hundred and fifty feet long, but it looked old and run-down. Huge rust stains streaked its blue sides, even covering part of its name: the Wendy K. It had a crane-type thingy on the back, and a built-up cabin up front with lots of satellite antennas on top. Where was Nino Pierpont when you needed him to finance a cutting-edge research vessel, for crying out loud?

  “We bought her as a retired offshore fishing trawler,” Dr. Dwyer explained as a man came out onto the deck and waved down at us. “Hey, Michael.”

  “Yo, Brigid!” he called back with a smile. His eyes raked us curiously, and I could almost feel his excitement.

  “But we’ve retrofitted her, mostly through donations, and now she’s one of our best research stations.” Dr. Dwyer went to the edge of the dock and grabbed a small metal ladder attached to the side of the Wendy K. She began to climb up it, and I was sure her hands would be covered with rust when she got to the top. “It’s safe, I assure you,” she told us over her shoulder.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Gazzy muttered. He flexed his wings, gave a little jump, and flew up to the deck, some eighteen feet above us.

  Dr. Dwyer and Michael stared at him, then exchanged pleased smiles, as if they’d just discovered some neat new life-form.

  Total jumped into my arms, and the rest of us flew up also.

  “Oh, my God,” Michael said. “It’s true!”

  “Well, it’s not just an elaborate hoax,” said Dr. Dwyer. “Michael, this is Max, Fang, Iggy, the, uh, Gasman, Nudge, and Angel. Guys, this is Dr. Michael Papa, one of our leading research scientists.”

  Total growled softly.

  “Oh, and this is their dog, Total,” she added.

  Total sucked in his breath with disgust.

  “Thank you for coming,” Dr. Papa said simply. He shook hands with us all, very formally, but he seemed warm and friendly, and not like he might want to stick us in cages and poke us with needles. For example.

  “We still don’t know why we’re here,” I told him.

  “Brigid didn’t tell you?” Dr. Papa’s eyebrows rose. “You’re here to help us gather data for a research project — about global warming and its effects on Antarctica, among other places.” He grinned at us, his teeth pale but human sized in the moonlight. “You’re here to help us save the world.”

  29

  “THIS IS JUST LIKE MOBY DICK!” Nudge exclaimed happily, bouncing on her tiny bunk. “They were on a fishing boat, and we’re on a fishing boat too! Only this one doesn’t have sails. And isn’t made of wood. And we have radar and computers and stuff. Still. We have little bunks, like old-fashioned sailors, and we eat in the mess, and the bathroom is called the head, and it’s all boat stuff, everywhere!”

  “Dr. Dwyer and Dr. Papa seem nice,” said Angel. She peered through the small porthole above her bed. If we punched out the glass, we could probably escape through it. Just a thought. “They’re really sincere and mean everything they say.”

  The rumbling of the ship’s engines made the floor vibrate beneath our feet.

  “We’re headed for the South Pole!” Gazzy jumped over the low threshold into our room from the boys’ room next door. “And it’s, like, so far south that it’s the bottom of the whole world.”

  I tried to keep from groaning out loud. I really, really hate cold weather. I hate bundling up. I’m more of a beach-and-sun kind of girl.

  “But you know, if the world is round,” said Nudge, “then there’s no real top or bottom to it. The South Pole could just as easily be at the top of the world. We could be thinking of everything completely upside down.”

  “You’re making my head hurt,” Total complained.

  Fang and Iggy came in. Iggy was running his fingers gently along every surface, memorizing his surroundings, how many steps to here and there, where furniture was.

  “It’s small in here,” he complained. “I feel like we’re inside a submarine. Can’t we sleep in hammocks on the deck?”

  “It’s really cold out there,” I reminded him, trying not to sound too bitter.

  “Frankly, I’d rather be in Hawaii,” Total griped, and I silently agreed with him. “Can your Voice send us there? We could be lying on a beach on Kauai, with drinks with little umbrellas in them. Instead we’re literally at the end of the world, doing God knows what. And what’s the food gonna be like on this boat?” He shook his head. “I am not into this plan, I can tell you —”

  Suddenly he stopped, and his eyes widened. “Well, alo-ha,” he breathed.

  Dr. Papa — that name still cracked me up — was standing in our doorway. At his side, a snow-white Malamute was sizing us up with the practiced eye of a guard dog. Total stared at it, speechless.

  “I know it’s not the Hilton, but it’s not too bad,” Dr. Papa said with a smile. “We’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible. Now, if you’ve settled in, we can gather in the conference room. You can meet everyone, and we can try to answer your questions.” Dr. Papa scratched the Malamute behind its small triangular ears. “This is Akila, our mascot and official rescue dog.”

  “Does she talk?” Angel asked. A perfectly reasonable question.

  Dr. Papa looked startled. “Uh, no.” He gave Angel an uncertain glance. Total was still dumbstruck, his mouth hanging open. “Come join us, okay? Go up to the deck, and the conference room is in the forward cabin hatch.” He left, and Akila trotted after him.

  “Akila’s pretty,” Angel said. “Like a white teddy bear.”

  “Pretty? She’s a goddess!” Total said hoarsely.

  “You’re drooling on Angel’s bed,” said the Gasman.

  Total swallowed. “Oh, my God, she’s magnificent. Did you see her cheekbones? That fur, brighter than sunlight . . .”

  Iggy rolled his eyes.

  “Um, Total?” I tried. “Akila’s really pretty and all, but you know, she’s just a regular dog, and . . .”

  Total jerked upright, his eyes blazing. “Regular dog! She’s perfection! Don’t you ever call her ‘regular’ again! Is the Venus de Milo just a statue? Is the Mona Lisa just a painting? Is the Louvre just a museum?”

  “No, it was neat,” Nudge agreed.

  I sighed, deciding to drop this hot potato for the time being. “Okay, everyone, let’s go find out what they want us to do. With any luck, we can quickly save the world and still have time to make the hot-air balloon festival in New Mexico. I’ve always wanted to see that.” Plus, it was warm there.

  “Cool,” Fang agreed, and we headed off to discover our mission.

  30

  THE WENDY K. was not the Love Boat. It had no casino, no swimming pool, no shopping atrium. It had a small gray-painted kitchen / dining hall, a small gray-painted lounge with a couple of ratty built-in couches, and a small white-painted conference room with some chipped Formica tables, a whiteboard, and some bookcases with bars across the front so the books wouldn’t fly off the shelves in rough seas.

  “Welcome,” Dr. Dwyer said, indicating some seats. Th
ere were seven adults in the room. Akila was lying on the floor beneath Dr. Papa’s chair. Total had paused before we entered, puffed out his chest, then sauntered in as if he were a Russian wolfhound. Since he’s a small black Scottie, it was an odd effect.

  All the grown-ups were staring at us, which we were used to.

  “Please, sit down,” said Michael. “As you know, I’m Dr. Michael Papa, but you can call me Michael. You know Dr. Brigid Dwyer —”

  “Can we call you Brigid?” Nudge interrupted. “Brigid’s a neat name.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Dr. Dwyer. “We’re pretty informal around here.”

  “I’m Melanie Bone,” said another woman. “The communications specialist.” She had the sun-streaked, tan look of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.

  The others were introduced as Brian Carey, dive specialist; Emily Robertson, eco-paleontologist; Sue-Ann Wong, ice specialist, whatever that was; and Paul Carey, ship’s captain (and brother of Brian), navigator, and expert in South Polar wildlife. They all seemed nice, but they all had a scientist’s rabid curiosity, and I felt their eyes boring into us as if making us into Swiss cheese.

  “Okay,” I said, standing up. I gauged the width of the room — about fifteen feet, just barely enough. “Let’s just get this out of the way.”

  I looked behind me to make sure there was space, then rolled my shoulders and unfolded my wings slowly, trying not to whap anyone on the head. The scientists stared at me, transfixed, as my wings stretched out farther and farther. Nudge ducked as one passed over her head, and then they were mostly extended, almost fourteen feet across.

  I must say, I do have pretty wings. They’re a lighter brown than my hair, but not as tawny as Nudge’s. My primary feathers, the big ones along the bottom outside edges, are streaked with black and white. The secondaries are streaked white and brown. On the undersides of my wings, the covert feathers are a soft ivory color. And over the tops and down the backs of my wings, I have shiny, strong brown feathers fading perfectly into the primaries.