20,000 Nerds Under the Sea (2 page)

NEIL ANDERTOL WOKE UP SNEEZING.

He plucked a clump of cat fur from his lips and rubbed his blurry eyes. Every night since the robotics tournament last month, he'd been reliving the fiasco in his dreams. A night spent in his friend Biggs's basement was no different—his drone disaster haunted him like a stomachache. But Neil shook off his nightmare and promised himself that today would be different. It was a day that he'd been looking forward to for weeks. After many months apart, all eleven of Neil's friends were
finally back under one roof for one weekend.

“Easy with the claws, Virginia,” said Neil to one of Biggs's thirteen cats. She ignored him and kept batting at his sleeping bag. Sunlight sneaked in through a tiny window near the ceiling. Biggs's house was a sun-bleached two-story, right near an ocean cove. Neil spit out cat fur and watched the squadron of cats wind through the row of barely awake kids.

These kids were some of the best video gamers in the world, and Neil's closest friends—the US government had recruited them all for top secret missions.

The two girls on their team, Sam and Corinne, were upstairs, enjoying a slumber party with Biggs's mom. Ms. Hurbigg had a telescope that was taller than Neil, so Sam was excited to stay up late and look at constellations. Neil figured Corinne was spelling the long, complicated names of distant star systems.

“Biggs, tell Connecticut to stop hissing at me,” said Jason 2 from his sleeping bag. He wore a faded yellow T-shirt that read
SUPER JASON
in cursive.

“That's not Connecticut—that's Pennsylvania,” Biggs replied. “That one with the spots on her paws is Connecticut.”

“I think they all have spots on their paws,” said JP, wrestling his glasses away from a brown-and-white tabby.

“Yeah, probably,” Biggs said, waving a hand to shoo his cats toward the stairway.

“Biggs, how many more cats are you planning on getting? Are you going for the full fifty states?” asked JP, putting on his smudged glasses. He'd passed out while working on calculations for his science-fair project. His sleeping bag was covered in small magnets and spiraling blue wires.

“We'll see,” Biggs replied, crawling out of his sleeping bag like a lanky caterpillar. He'd really shot up in the few months since he and Neil had saved the solar system, and now he was even taller.

“Or maybe I'll name a cat after my hero—Neil Andertol,” joked Biggs.

“Sir Neil Andertol, the one and
only
,” said Riley in his signature Renaissance-fair accent. “The fairest video gamer on Earth, and not to mention the top flight pilot and space astronaut.”

“OK, OK, we get it,” said Neil, blushing.

“And don't forget sleep talker,” said Waffles, the Montana native and lasso enthusiast.

“He makes a good point, Neil,” said Waffle's twin brother, Dale. “Pretty sure last night you mumbled something about a ‘traveling pirate circus.'”

“Wait, that's in town?” said Yuri. “What are we doing going to that gaming convention?”

“And the title of best gamer on the planet is still up for debate,” said Trevor. Even after a long flight from Boston to California, he was still eager to pick fights. But Neil, who had organized the weekend, was glad to see him anyway.

After Neil's embarrassing robo demonstration, his parents had promised they'd make it up to him and offered to send Neil to Reboot Robiskie's convention. Neil was going to stay at Biggs's, but he had invited his ten other counterparts along for the adventure. Through some sort of miracle, they were all able to join.

“It's not ten yet, right?” said Waffles, folding up his camouflaged bedroll. “We can't be late for the convention.”

“'Tis only half past eight,” said Riley, looking at the watch on his pudgy arm. He smelled vaguely like hay bales. “And I agree, we mustn't be late for Sir Reboot's World's Fair.”

“It's just called RebootCon,” said Neil.

“And what exactly goes on at such a convention?” asked Yuri. “I've never been. Most of the live-action role-playing I go to meets in the woods.”

“RebootCon is special. There are row after row of video games you've never even seen before,” said Jason 1.

“Even though this is only the third convention, I heard Reboot's flying in the highest-paid professional gamers from all over: Russia. South Korea.
Des Moines
,” said Waffles.

“They have screens that are so large, they're illegal in certain countries,” added JP. He carefully tucked his science project into a sturdy plastic case.

“Yuri, you'll love it. Each one gets better,” explained Dale.

“Last year, they had a competition over who could play video games the longest without blinking,” added his brother, Waffles. “A kid played for three hours straight, misting his eyeballs with a squirt gun.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get to this Reboot conference,” said Yuri excitedly.

“It's RebootCon . . . ,” Neil said.

Neil and a few others began to pick up the half-eaten
bags of chips and pretzels that surrounded Biggs's television. A cat, maybe Vermont, scratched at a plate of cookies covered in plastic wrap.

“Let's get a move on, sleepyheads” came a voice from the top of the stairs.

“Rise and shine!” It was Samantha Gonzales, Neil's best friend. She flicked on the fluorescent lights in Biggs's basement.

“We've risen! Now turn those off!” yelled a squinting Jason 1. His pillow was in the shape of a football, and he used the cushion to shield his eyes.

“I'll believe it when I see it. Now get up here,” Sam said.

Blatttttt.

From the front yard came the blast of a truck horn and the diesel roar of a huge engine.

“What's going on?” asked a confused Biggs. “Is this one of those home makeover shows? They've been getting my emails!”

Neil smiled, his eyes bright. “It's actually a surprise.”

Neil sprinted up the stairs and out to the front yard. He rounded the corner to see a giant vehicle, its windows tinted jet black. It looked like a giant party bus. The glow of bouncing neon lights was visible through
the windows. The bus had pulled into the driveway diagonally, crushing Biggs's mom's flower beds.

“Did you miss me?” asked a voice as the door swung open.

“Harris!” yelled Trevor. The rest of the group gathered in front of the rumbling vehicle.

It was Harris Beed—former evil villain, current video-game designer, and the heir to his family's Beed Industries fortune. His quick thinking was also responsible for helping Neil's team find a stolen spaceship on their last mission.

“Nah, we didn't miss you,” joked Sam. “And neither did those rosebushes.”

She pointed to the thorny plants crushed under the bus's thick tires.

“Oh,” said Harris. “They'll be fine—let's get on the road!”

“You're here early!” said Neil. He and his friends were still in pajamas, their hair matted into bed head.

“I've got some fires to put out before the convention starts. All the ostriches for Feather Duster 3 keep yelling Taylor Swift lyrics,” Harris said. “The work of a game designer is never done. Now go get dressed.”

“Do we need to bring anything else?” asked Sam.

“Where we're going we don't need anything else,” Harris said with a wave. “We've got sparkling energy drinks, free T-shirts from my dad, and, like, four hundred donut holes.”

“Are you kids sure you don't need a ride? I'm happy to drive,” said Biggs's mom, joining everyone out front.

“It's my treat, honest,” said Harris. He lifted his sunglasses to survey the shrubs he'd just run over. “And my father knows a killer landscape guy. We'll get this fixed right up.”

“Groovy. We'll figure it out,” said Biggs's mom. She had frizzy blond hair and the same smile as her son. “And don't forget your tickets!”

She handed Neil a sealed yellow envelope.

“OK, we gotta move it, folks. Games won't deglitch themselves.”

Waffles gave a loud yip and rushed to the idling bus.

“Sweet surprise, Neil,” said Dale, slapping Neil's shoulder as he chased after his brother.

Neil ran back inside to throw on his favorite pair of old corduroy pants. He double-knotted the laces of a pair of old sneakers and ran back outside.

Once everyone was dressed and on board, the donut feeding frenzy began. The bus rumbled into gear, and the mirrored walls of the interior filled with blue twinkling lights.

“To RebootCon!” shouted Harris, pushing play on a speaker system that was louder than seven jet engines. Thirteen cheers went up as Neil and his best friends headed toward the highway and the famous Reboot Robiskie.

THE PARTY BUS SKIDDED TO A STOP IN FRONT OF THE CHAOTIC
San Diego convention center. Costumed gamers moved around the vehicle like a swarm of ants.

“Thanks, Vinny!” yelled Sam to the driver. She gave him a powerful high five and skipped outside.

“Just call me when you guys are done. With traffic being so bad, I'm gonna hang around here. Might go sneak around that new ketchup plant that's opening up,” said the driver. “I hear they need delivery drivers. Maybe I'll check out an aquarium or something, too.”

“Those things are awful, Vinny,” said Biggs.

“Could you imagine being stuck in a fish tank like that? It's like if somebody made you drive around the parking lot forever,” added Sam.

“I guess I never thought of it that way,” said the driver, scratching the top of his round head. He pulled a card from his shirt pocket. “Just give me a ring when you're ready to head home. I'll be around. Party on.”

The bus pulled away and the group clustered together in the middle of all the zombies, vampires, overdressed Vikings, and underdressed elves.

“Oh, no. Are costumes mandatory?” asked Corinne.

“I've got enough superhero costumes for eight of us,” said Jason 2. “They're a little wrinkly, though. They're stuffed in my backpack.”

“When was the last time you washed those?” asked Sam.

Neil cleared his throat to get the group's attention and led them toward the huge building, only to bump into the thick, steel-toed boot of a security guard.

“Registration, please,” said the short guard, who had a stubbly gray-and-black beard. He was bald, but the rest of him was very hairy and covered in tattoos that resembled barbed wire.

“Registration?” said Neil.

“Yeah, kid. Or your tickets. Lemme see 'em.”

Neil slid a finger under the flap of the yellow envelope containing their tickets. With a smile he reached inside and handed the stack of tickets to the security guard.

“This is a joke, right?”

Neil looked down at what he'd handed over. It was a stack of twelve seed packages. There were sunflowers, poppies, even a few forget-me-nots—but not a single ticket.

“Oh, no, Mom must have switched up the envelopes,” Biggs said. He looked through the tiny packages containing an entire garden's seeds.

Neil felt a bead of sweat build on the top of his forehead. The guard impatiently cracked his knuckles.

“We've got some good seeds in here, sir,” said Biggs. “These probably equal the price of the tickets.”

The guard grimaced, flexing the muscles of his unusually huge jaw.

“Wait—I thought Harris said we didn't need anything?” asked Sam.

“Perhaps this is all you need,” said Harris, stepping out from the back of the group. He pulled a glossy pass from his pocket and handed it to the man. The pass
was stamped with the official RebootCon logo and the letters
VIP
.

VIP! Perfect. Since Harris designs games, he can totally get us all in.
Neil felt a wave of relief.

“That gets you in, chief. But your friends aren't VIPs,” said the guard.

Well, awesome.

Harris turned to Neil as his phone erupted with a panicked, all-caps text message.
THE GLITCH IS MUTATING. NEED HELP ASAP.

“I just have my pass, guys,” Harris said. “I'm sorry, but I really need to get in there. Once I fix my game, I'll try and get twelve more passes.”

He scribbled a number on a Beed Industries card. “Here's the number of my booth, if you guys get inside.” With that, the blue-velvet rope was secured back in place, and Harris disappeared into the stream of gamers.

“Well, OK,” Neil said, sighing. He turned to the scruffy guard. “Can we use RebootCoins from the hosting site?”

“Kid, I don't even know what anything you just said means,” he replied. “To get in here, you need to either be
on this list of preregistered guests or have a ticket—and tickets have been sold out for days.”

Neil's sweats got worse, and he instantly regretted the nineteen donut holes he'd eaten on the ride in. He couldn't be mad at Biggs's mom for the ticket oversight, but Neil was panicked.

“So let me get this straight,” said Trevor. “We flew all the way across the country for a convention we don't have tickets to?”

He too had had a growth spurt since Neil saw him last. He was nearly as tall as Biggs, and his voice was getting deeper.

“Kids, you either have tickets or not. And I need this area clear. Lots of customers with
real tickets
need to get through.”

Neil felt dizzy. He had worked so hard to make this trip happen, and the twelve best video gamers in the country were stuck outside the biggest video-game convention in history.

“We could try and drive back home,” offered Biggs.

“With that traffic? By the time we get back, the convention will be over,” said Trevor. He put his hands on his hips and huffed out in frustration. “Why wasn't I put
in charge of this? We wouldn't be in this mess if I was the one responsible.”

The group shuffled away from the entrance.

“Sorry about the seeds, everybody. We tried,” Biggs said. “We can still have a good time. My mom can make us beet pancakes at home.”

The group groaned. They wanted a chance to see the mysterious Reboot Robiskie, not to introduce more fiber into their diets.

“It's OK. It's nobody's fault,” said Neil.

“Man, I was really looking forward to this convention,” said Yuri.

“I know,” said Waffles. “And now we're stuck here with nothing to do. I could be playing paintball right now.”

“I should be finishing my science project!” said a stressed JP.

“Guys, I—I don't know what to say, but—” Neil started.

“Save it for another time, Andertol,” said Sam, her eyes scanning the crowd. “I think I've got an idea.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, AT THE OPPOSITE END OF THE
building—at a completely separate entrance—a group
of twelve arrived in an elegant party bus. Its pulsing neon lights were turned off, and soft classical music played inside.

Sam was the first to leave the bus, again, as Neil and the others silently followed.

“Tell everyone Mr. Beed sends his regards,” said Vinny, the bus driver, in a fake British accent.

Everyone wore baggy, neon-green shirts plastered with the logo of Beed Industries.

“Tickets, please,” asked a different security guard. She was taller than the first and wore a black baseball cap with the official RebootCon insignia.

“What for? We'll be in and out—just here to help behind the scenes,” Sam said, her usually gruff voice seeming the tiniest bit raspier. “Booth three hundred and thirty.”

She handed over Harris's card. It was very thick paper, and the guard ran her fingers over the grooves of Harris Beed's family insignia.

“What is it you all are doing exactly?”

“Fixing the booth for Feather Duster 3. The game keeps glitching.”

The woman looked puzzled. “Beed Industries?”

“You don't know Beed Industries?” Sam asked. “Lady, they're the main sponsors of RebootCon.” She pointed up at the show's banner; it read
REBOOTCON: PROUDLY SPONSORED BY BEED INDUSTRIES
.

“There's no time to waste. If we don't get in to fix his game, we're all in trouble,” Sam said. “
Especially
anyone responsible for keeping us from fixing Mr. Beed's game.”

Sam made a pretty convincing negotiator. The guard inspected the card once again, then studied the group's T-shirts, and finally looked back at the banner.

“We'll be in and out, promise,” Sam said.

“Fine, just be quick about it,” she replied. The guard unclipped the blue rope and waved the twelve fake Beed Industries employees into the convention center. Neil Andertol smiled, proud of Sam's quick thinking.
RebootCon. We did it. We're in.