20,000 Nerds Under the Sea by Jeff Miller

sat down on the bench by her glossy upright piano. She crossed her arms and leaned back on the off-white keys. An ominous tone played, startling a cat sleeping in a nearby window.
    â€œWe need your help,” Neil whispered. “That game at RebootCon wasn’t a game . The creator was just finding people to use to capture sharks. Every shark.”
    â€œHe’s telling the truth, as crazy as it sounds,” Harris added. A clock chimed in another room of the house. “Plus I’ll give you five thousand Beed Airlines miles. You can go wherever you’d like.”
    Corinne wriggled her nose.
    â€œWell, OK,” said Corrine. “But you’ll have to get this approved by my father somehow.”
    â€œWhatever that means, sure,” Neil said.
    â€œHe’ll demand one thing.”
    â€œWhat? A kidney? A spleen?”
    â€œA spell-off.”
    â€œRight now?” Neil asked.
    â€œY-E-S,” Corinne spelled out, cracking her knuckles to warm up.
    â€œOK then,” Neil said. “A spell-off it is.”
    â€œDad, come here, please. Neil would like to speak with you.”
    SAM AND BIGGS HUDDLED ON THE GROUND, SURROUNDED by the vibrant colors of freshly fallen Montana leaves. Dried twigs crunched under their bodies as they crawled behind a fallen maple tree.
    Phwap! Phwap!
    Blue paint splattered just above their heads.
    â€œGuys, do we really have to do this?” yelled Sam from behind a bulky safety mask.
    â€œSundays are for paintball! Nothing else!” yelled Dale. Bits of bark fell on Biggs’s head as more paintballs peppered their tree bunker.
    â€œBut we need your help!” said Biggs, his hair dusted with tiny blue paint blobs.
    â€œIf you guys want us to help so badly, you’ll have to earn it,” said Dale from behind a giant spruce tree.
    â€œI’d love to play all day, but we don’t have time,” said Sam, keeping her head tucked behind the makeshiftbunker. “A lunatic ketchup pirate is threatening to kill every shark on the planet.”
    â€œWith her own monster shark,” Biggs said, poking his head up before a splash of orange paint tagged his curly hair.
    The volley of paintballs stopped as Biggs heard the two boys step out from behind their shelter. A few birds chirped from hidden nests in the thick branches above.
    â€œDid you say monster shark?” asked Waffles.
    Biggs stood up, his clothes covered in new splotches of wet paint. Sam joined him, her hair now a neon blue.
    â€œMonster metal shark, my dudes,” said Biggs.
    â€œWell, in that case, we’re on board,” said Waffles, lowering his bright-orange paintball gun. “Sundays are for paintball and sharks.”
    AS THE ENGINES LOWERED HARRIS BEED’S PRIVATE JET onto a field, people in capes and chain mail scattered in all directions.
    â€œLo, what metal bird is this?” shouted a villager, spilling the heavy bucket of cream he’d been carrying. “Get thee to thine horses!”
    The plane had landed in the center of the Renaissancefair, Riley’s home away from home. Once again, he had found himself in the stocks. His stubby arms and head poked between wooden slats in the center of the town.
    â€œRiley!” yelled Sam, stepping out from the jet and running toward him.
    â€œLook how the flying woman moves just like one of us,” said a frightened villager, never once dropping character. “What be this wizardry you share with us, magicke woman?”
    â€œYe olde jet plane,” Sam said, popping the lock of Riley’s stocks with a bobby pin. “Give it another hundred or so years; you guys will love ’em.”
    â€œWhile I appreciate this rescue, my fair compatriots,” said Riley, “I’m not sure why ’tis happening.”
    â€œWe’ve got a mission to complete!” yelled Biggs over the whirring of the jet engine.
    â€œA mission? But whither is Jones?”
    â€œOur