Excerpt for Aquifer 0 - Onset by
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AQUIFER ~ 0 / ONSET – Jeske & Eduard Meinema

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‘Onset’ is a short story. An introduction to the AQUIFER series: A mysterious diary confuses marine biologist Jerry Allen. The meeting with strange sea creatures which Priscilla Blextone describes in her ancient diary looks lifelike. Her drawings and description agree with beings that are also known as mermaids. As a scientist Jerry Allen knows that's not possible. Mermaids do not exist. Or…?

Then Allen’s leave is interrupted. The Navy urgently needs his help. At a location close to the Great Barrier Reef Allen watches secret images of unknown beings filmed by the Navy. Unknown creatures that look suspiciously like the mermaids Priscilla Blextone had described two centuries earlier. Could it be...? Start reading!

CONTENT

About the authors

Aquifer Bibliography

Copyright

Smashwords

websites: www.jeskemeinema.nl and www.eduardmeinema.nl

AQUIFER 0 / ONSET


1


Finally!

Time has come.

I already undressed and neatly folded and placed my dress on the bench of the boat. A dinghy. The boat, I mean; the dress is of Beau Brummel, the designer of 1815. In fact, a designer of men’s clothing, but I am far ahead of my time. And I just know that everyone in London will be jealous of me. But out here; in Australia there are hardly any women that I can compare myself with. Or women who can keep up with me. Though, considering my length, I could quite go on for an aborigine.


No, there are no envious looks of other women around here. And today, out here on the high seas, no looks at all. Finally I succeeded to go out on my own. And believe me; I am all on my own out here on the Great Barrier Reef. All I have to do is take off my corset. Bloody misshapen thing. Great to hide my love handles. But the way it oppresses me! My waist is totally gone, completely squeezed.  Constricted so bad that my breasts are just about to be pushed up to my ears. No, women do not look at me; the men will. But I’m already married. To the tallest man on the island. Governor Patrick Blextone is one of the most important men of the fifth continent. Or the sixth. Arithmetic is not my thing. Well, at least it is the largest island in the world. A beautiful country, but hot! And dry... At times it is unbearable. In the summer frogs, even lung fish, dig deep in the ground to survive the heat. But today I’m on the water. I'm going to have a look at something completely else; on my own. I have succeeded in avoiding the guards and now I am ready to see the beautiful underwater reef.


First, I have to take off that wretched corset. Subconsciously I have a quick look around me to make sure that no one can see me here. No sign of a boat. A clear blue horizon with a sweltering sun high in the sky. I must be careful I do not get burned or tanned; white is the beauty ideal. Convinced that I’m all alone, I dive into the ocean, all naked. The water is lovely warm and clear. I have never had such a clear view in Holland. Yes, hubby may be a perfect English gentleman; this lady really comes from Holland. Priscilla de With, daughter of a wealthy patrician. Ah that was in the good old days. The Golden Age my parents call it. But since then the famous VOC, the “Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie got bankrupt… Guess you didn’t get that name, did you? The VOC or Dutch East India Company got bankrupt and we were overruled by the English. All over the world our colonies were conquered. Freed said the English. Australia; Cape Town ... even some hamlet that we bought from the Native American Indians. New Amsterdam we had named it. How do those Englishmen call it again? New York or something like that. Shitty, little town, absolutely no charisma; totally no shops... I digress, huh? Yep, Priscilla de With, sorry, Blextone is sometimes chaotic. Family habit, I inherited it from my mother. My head is always full of important questions such as "How on Earth do I get the latest designs of Beau Brummel all the way over here?" I often have to wait months before the latest fashion finally arrives here. Yes, well; and by that time it is not hot anymore. Crazy stuff.


I hold my breath and go under. The colored fish are breathtaking. Corals friendly wave with their hand fan polyps. I feel like the queen of the reef. Until... A gray-green shade shoots along behind me. Hiding behind the immense staghorn coral branches. I have no idea if it is really called staghorn, but I think that calcareous skeletons resemble antlers. I can feel my heart beating in my throat. A shark? Oh my god. And Patrick had warned me so many times. I see my life flashing by. Priscilla Blextone, born in Holland, Haarlem to be exact, died down under. Ha! Down under, literally under water here. My gravestone will soon tell anybody: ‘the victim of a shark attack.’ All that remains of me are a few gnawed bones. And my collection of designer clothes, of course. Closets filled with clothes. OMG! Who is going to wear all those pretty things? Not that bitch Stefani Germanotta? My neighbor? Cute woman, but she has a strange taste of dressing.

Come on Priscilla, get yourself together. Why would anyone who has seen the world, like I did, be afraid of a little shark? It’s only a fish. Like a guppy. When I surface, I look straight into the cold eyes of a horrible big shark. Some kind of rag; a big white bitch. The same time it squeezes its eyes, its mouth opens wider. “Shit!” I think, “Seems Stefani Germanotta is going to get my clothes after all.” It all goes very fast. In a final attempt to survive this attack, I take a big, deep breath of air. Ready to go under water and avoid the big mouth, I feel how something suddenly pulls me at my feet. Another shark? I am dragged down and rapidly pulled away from the shark. Terrified I let all the air escape from my lungs. Bubbles of air are swarming and dancing into the sunlight at the surface. I see a few gray-green shadows chasing the shark. They are jabbing it with pieces of coral. The large, white lout who wanted to eat me as a starter, or perhaps as an appetizer, I’m just not that big you know, goes away. It swims into the unknown ocean with an empty stomach. I gasp for breath. Foolish of course. My lungs fill with seawater. Yikes, salt water! Then two soggy lips are pressed against mine. Yuck! Something, or someone, I cannot think clearly anymore, is blowing air into my lungs. Stuck closely together, like two kissing fish, we slowly rise. Just below the surface the gray-green shade lets go of me. I look around. The shark is gone and I’m back at my little boat.

“Priscilla,” I hear someone on the other side of the dinghy screaming upset. Yes, women can be hysterical, but men in panic can be worse!

Carefully I swim, still naked, around my boat; to starboard. Or is it larboard? Who cares; I’m not on board which is currently the most important thing. On, um... the other side of the jolly-boat is another larger boat with my screaming husband and some bodyguards on board.

‘Priscilla, are you out of your mind? There are deadly sharks around these waters. You have to come out right away!”

Yeah, yeah. I am floating naked in the water, you know. “Let the men turn around,” I say while I hide my breasts with my arms. The clear water is wonderful, but a little uncomfortable at the moment.

“Men, turn around. Other side. Now!” commands my tall husband who suddenly regained his bravery.

Abruptly the six men turn around, get to the other side of the rickety boat so they almost fall overboard themselves. Just in time they manage to restore the balance. Satisfied Patrick looks at me.

“Yes, hello-oh,” I say. “Turn around! You too!”

“But, sweetheart... I’ve seen you like this a thousand times.”

“You’ve never seen me bobbing in the water like this, you pervert. Turn around and make sure your men are not watching me!”

While I hear Patrick’s men snigger, my long bodied husband turns around with not too flattering, cumbersome swinging movements to the other side of the boat. In an inexplicable way I suddenly remember a ballet version of the dying swan. I can’t help myself from laughing.

“What is it?” Patrick asks.

Don’t look around,” I almost bark at him. I scramble on board. Quickly get myself into my corset and pull on the cords of torture in the hope of restoring my waist. “Oh fuck it,” I say just a little too loud. “Let’s just hang it; much more comfortable.”

When I finally have dressed, in my Special Brummel, I hear a screeching and squeaking sound. I look up. Far from the boat a gray-green tail slips slowly into the ocean.

I know what I saw.

But how do I convince my husband without being declared insane?


2


Jerry Allen roams about the flea market in the center of Amsterdam. Not something he does every day; walking around. Usually he swims. Or rather: he dives. But not in the famous canals of Amsterdam. It is close to impossible in 2042. Since the world is afflicted by the Great Drought the canals are almost empty. Fresh water is becoming increasingly scarce.


Jerry Allen is a marine biologist; he studies the oceans and the species living in it. A young, attractive tough guy, just about thirty years old. As he once again has been under water for several hours his hands are full of wrinkles like the hands of an elderly man. The salt water makes his hands week. But not now. This week he is on leave. Time to visit his homeland and stroll around the market on the Museumplein. A beautiful plaza in between the Rijksmuseum, you know, the museum of Rembrandt's ‘Night Watch’, and the Van Gogh Museum, you know, the guy who cut off his ear. No; bad example. You’d rather think of the beautiful sunflowers that he painted.

The stalls are filled with antiques, or what is called antiques, and design stuff. Most of it is actually used clutter; very classy advertised as ‘vintage; a name undoubtedly raising the prices. But it remains junk.

Hey, there’s something you don’t see very often these days,” Jerry thinks when he sees the pile of paper books. “Today everything is published as e-books.”

He carefully looks through some of the books. Just as carefully he puts them back in the booth. As he wants to walk by, he discovers a small thumbed book. It looks like an ancient script. Normally he would never look at it; but this book has a cover with fish on it. When he scrolls through the pages he sees what it really is. An old diary, written entirely by hand.

“Nice little book, eh?” says the young woman behind the stall. “A unique copy, sir. Really something for you. Or for your girlfriend... if you have a girlfriend that is.”

“Yeah, you think so?” chuckles Jerry. As if the woman he has never seen before knows what Jerry likes at first glance. Or would she have other intentions?

In addition to the handwritten texts there are some original drawings. Illustrations of all kinds of fish and... Hmm, some weird thing. Volatile he reads the text under the drawings. The young woman’s texts make him laugh. He knows most of the fish that she describes with her humor and her accuracy. How often has he been diving in the Great Barrier Reef? He scrolls back to the page with the strange fish. Or, what is it? What a beautiful drawing. It looks like... Ah, he must laugh about himself; it looks like a mermaid.

How much is this?” he asks the sultry looking lady behind the stall, who is still almost unabashedly languishing, waiting for Jerry’s answer. Does he have a girlfriend or not?

“For you? Or your girlfriend, dear?” the woman says with a cheerful Amsterdam accent.

Jerry laughs kindly at her. “For me. You don’t have to wrap it up.”

“Well, I would like to wrap you up,” she laughs.

Pleased with his new acquisition, he leaves the woman behind her stall. “Well,” she says to her neighbor, “that was my shortest affair ever...”


In the evening, comfortably laying on the couch, Jerry enjoys reading the diary.

Saturday, June 23, 1815 
The water is very calm and there is nothing to be seen on the surface. (This could also be due to the darkness). There is a thick cloud cover and in this light, or no light, I cannot distinguish the sea from the air. I always thought you could admire a beautiful starry sky on the open sea. Not so. 
I think I will ask Patrick if we can make a stop at a tropical island.
 
Or no, not really.
 There are no shops on those islands. 
I finished the outline of the tail that I saw today
. I have no idea whether the drawing is truthful. Now that I have another look, the tail may very well be a deformed rock. 
Or a very small boat.
 

Something is moving. 
This was a bad idea.
 It is pitch dark and nobody knows that I have just thrown my husband overboard to take a look in the water with the bloodthirsty sharks. They consider me mad. (If they did not already.) I’ll probably have to call for help.

Thank goodness. Patrick is still alive. I had obviously not thought that he was the one who moved through the water. In fact, I wonder if he can stand the cold that long. Maybe I should get him out of the water and recognize that I have just suffered from a stroke, as he asserted this afternoon. 
Now that I think about it, it actually still makes me angry.
 You know what? Let Patrick continue to look just a little longer. I know what I saw. 
I think.
 
Or actually… I don’t know what I saw.

I mean; I know that I’ve seen something.

Not what. 

Oh-oh, Patrick calls.
 It sounds serious.


Priscilla, darling, come quickly.” Patrick floats around the gig. Through the darkness I cannot decide if his expression is serious, but considering the relaxed tone of his voice there are no sharks around at this moment (or well, he has not seen them anyway). 
“What do you mean? Come quickly?” I hiss panicky. 
“Come into the water,” Patrick calls again. “I think I see something.” 
“I can’t,” I say prompt. “Then the ink will run out.” 
Or worse; my notes are torn apart by that white monster. I don’t think so. I’m not going back into the water.

Priscilla,” Patrick recalls. “I really think you should see this. I think... I mean, I’m starting to believe... There is indeed something strange going on here.” 
Unbelievable. It’s 1815 and it still is a taboo for a man to acknowledge, even for once, a woman is right. We should do something about that; us women. We should fight for equal rights like sisters. We should go ‘
all the way and not only fight for our right, but also for other… um, things. 
Equality. 
Or voting rights. 
That will teach them. 
But for now I’ll have to settle for the fact that my husband, 
Mister Always Right, gives me the benefit of the doubt as he finally believes he has seen something I have seen before. 
“What do you see?” I ask curiously. And convinced of myself I think: “Told you…”
“A phantom,” says Patrick, not so very sure anymore. The big boss is suddenly not so bossy any longer. “It looks like gold. The shadow looks like gold.”
“Gold?” My attention is drawn again. Then I realize, “No, no, no. That is not possible. It was green. Or gray. Green Gray. Gray-green.” Ha! If it was gold I would never have left the water I think greedy. 
“Come and have a look,” sighs Patrick. “And give me some more light.”
Carefully I bow my oil lamp over the railing. Painfully my eyes manage to find Patrick… and the shadow circling around him ... 
A shadow that is neither green nor gray. Unfortunately. 
I quickly grab my notes and try to make a realistic sketch of this... that... the... thing. The being. Whatever it may be. 
The water largely distorts the shape of the thing, but for now it will do. I go by what I see. And that’s a human torso and a long tail; very different from that shark I encountered. I’m no expert, but I can remember an article about a recently discovered species, with exactly such a tail. A sea cow. 
No charming name, if you ask me. 
‘Priscilla,” it suddenly sounds panicking from the water. “It touches me. Help!” 
“Oh you’re such a...” When I look over the railing, I see to my horror that Patrick disappears under water. “I’m coming!” I cry startled. I quickly grab a bunch of rope. Holy moly, hard to lift that stuff. I throw some of it overboard. The other end I attach to the mast. I get almost relieved when I hear sneezing. But then I realize that it can also be 
The Being; the difference is difficult to distinguish because Patrick, as he once again ends up in a coughing fit, sounds the same like a seal. I frantically run back to the railing. “Patrick! Patrick, grab the rope!”


Phone.

Jerry looks up startled from the diary. “Darn, why now?”  he thinks. “Jerry,” he says curtly to the caller.

“Dr. Allen,” says the surly voice on the other end of the line without telling his name. “Nice to know you are making a pleasure trip, but we need your cooperation here. As quickly as possible.”

“What do you mean Commander?” says Jerry, recognizing the gruff voice of the naval commander out of thousands.

“Exactly as I say it. You must report here. Tomorrow.”

“Commander,” sputters Jerry Allen, “I cannot arrange transportation tonight. It will really take me a day or two before I...”

“Tomorrow morning you will be picked up. Tomorrow afternoon you report to me,” the caller commands seconds before he ends the call.

Well, that’s great,” grumbles Jerry. “From one week of vacation to a night of...”


3


Relaxed, to the extent possible, Jerry is sitting in the navy aircraft. Slumped in his chair, he reads on in the diary of the flea market.


Sunday, June 24, 1815 
A close call. 
Patrick is still alive, thank goodness.
 Besides the fact that I don’t want to lose him, of course, I really have no clue how I should justify his sudden disappearance. 
Not that I know how to explain what I have seen tonight.
 Patrick used the rope to climb back on deck.  I looked over his shoulder at the almost black sea. And then, suddenly, The Being surfaced. 
It was a human.

A woman.

Honestly! 

She submerged almost right away, but the image of this creature is engraved so deeply in my mind that I can see her whenever I close my eyes.
 Her eyes were nearly twice as big as mine and even darker than the darkness of the night. Her nose was flattened ... it looked more like two nostrils without a nose bridge. And her mouth... a mouth. Like mine. 
Two indefinable flaps were at the height of her ears.
 It resembled the gills as I had seen on the shark. And in her eyes I saw no anger, only curiosity. 
And oh, right;
 she also had a tail.


“Good morning, dear.” Patrick slides at the breakfast table. He doesn’t ask me how I slept and I do not blame him. The answer he already knows. “What are you doing?” 
“Nothing special.” I put my notes away. The more I try to remember last night, the blurrier the images linger. I’ve been thinking about it so much the last few hours that I almost start believing it was a dream. An illusion. 
“I get it,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “May I have a look?” He nods toward my bundle of notes. 
Thoughtless I slide the book to him. “If you think of anything, then...” 
“Priscilla,” he interferes. “Did you really want to leave me there for hours bobbing around in the ocean because I happened to think that you suffered from a heat stroke?”
“Um,” I say ashamed. “That part was... That’s not the point,” I say primly. 
“I was just worried.”
“You should have believed me right away,” I say angrily. 
“I do believe you. I just don’t believe in fairy tales.”

I mutter something he cannot hear and decide to enjoy breakfast. Askance I watch Patrick grumbling continues looking through my notes. He is silent and looks at the sketches I made. Then, unexpectedly, he says: “You are talented.”
“What?” I stammer shy. 
“You’ve got talent. You can draw very well,” he says again. “Perhaps you should design dresses.”
“Well, thank you, but I think I’d rather just go to the store and then...”
Patrick laughs. “Whatever you want, dear.” He returns my notes. Lost I browse through my diary. I look at the human face that I have outlined. It negates what I’ve seen last night. Then I look up. “Do you think we’ll see her again?”
“No idea.”
“What is it?” I still stare at the sketch. 
“No idea,” recalls Patrick. 
“Do you think...?” I look up and lean over to him confidentially. “Do you think we should tell?”
Patrick draws a frown. “Tell who, dear?” 
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know to whom I should tell this. But I do not want to carry this burden alone. I want answers.

Patrick leans a bit forward and continues our conversation whispering: “No one will believe us, Priscilla.” His face is serious “We need to keep this between us. Otherwise they will declare us crazy and I will lose my job.”


Questionable Jerry Allen closes the diary. Picks it up again. Scrolls back to have another look at the page with the mermaid and then carefully stores the diary in his bag. If he wasn’t a scientist... If he wouldn’t need scientific proof... That Blextone wrote so extensively and in detail about possible mermaids that Jerry almost was going to believe her.


4


“Finally,” barks commander Clousteau as Jerry reports himself.

Well, finally… It is only that you did not have me picked up from my bed, but there’s no way I could have been coming over here any faster.”

“Good,” grumbles Clousteau. “I think it is important to look at this case from your point of view.”

“What case?”

“I cannot tell you much. Defense, secrecy... You know how these things work. Don’t you?”

“Well,” sighs Jerry, “I had to sign so many papers before I was allowed to come over here; I feel I unconsciously even sold my body to the Navy.”

“Good,” Clousteau repeats nervously and without going into Jerry’s joke. “Sit down Dr. Allen. I’m going to show you some disturbing images.”

“Disturbing pictures?” Tensed Jerry sits down at the long table. “Will there be more people?” he asks, looking around the empty room.

“No, the less people know about this, the better.”

“Well, I’m curious ...”

“Me too,” says the commander.

“Excuse me? Haven’t you seen the images yet?” Jerry asks, surprised.

“Of course I did. I mean, I’m curious to hear your opinion.”

Commander Clousteau takes place next to Jerry Allen. Quickly typing his password on the keyboard on the table. Sweeps his thumb on the scanner, and then, together with Jerry, silently looks at the images that appear on the wall.


Afterwards Clousteau looks intently at Jerry. “And? What do you think? As a professional?”

Jerry is petrified looking at the blank screen.

“I... This is... How is it...? Commander, when were these images made?”

“That’s secret Dr. Allen. I just want to know what you think. What do you think it is?”

Jerry rubs his eyes. “As a scientist, I’m not supposed to say this; not even think it... But, um ...” he looks intently at the commander. “May I speak freely?”

“Please do,” the commander confirms curious to hear Jerry’s professional opinion.

Jerry grabs his bag. Rummages circuitous until he finds Priscilla Blextone’s diary. He quickly browses to the page with The Being, as Priscilla described it neatly. Folded open he puts the book on the table, in front of Clousteau.

“1815 Clousteau. A diary from 1815. Look at the similarity between this drawing and the creatures that you have captured on video.”

Astonished Clousteau stares at the drawing. Shallowly he reads the accompanying text and then looks hopeful at Jerry Allen. “We are on the same level, huh? Allen?”

“I would almost say, coincidence does not exist...”

The men look at each other in silence.

“"Now do you understand why I had to let you come back as soon as possible?” Clousteau says. “We need to investigate this; do additional research.”

“With all due respect Clousteau. To examine this carefully, we need more people.”

“That can be arranged directly.”

“Wow, ho, ho ...” Jerry mutters. “I would love to. I mean, I feel honored... but I have other commitments.”

“But Dr. Allen... I need you here!”

“Commander Clousteau,” Jerry continues, “I know exactly who you need to unravel this mystery.”


5


The somewhat flabby professor overlooks the unknown visitor sitting suspiciously behind his computer.

“What can I do for you, hnn?” he moans.

“Jerry Allen, marine biologist,” the visitor says briefly. “I want to talk to you about a diary.”

“Ah, you write a diary. Really nice for you,” the professor growls almost rude.

“I do not write; I read, professor. And not just a diary; an important 18th century document bequeathed by the Blextone family.”

“Oh, really, hnn?” the fat man continues.

“The Dutch navy has asked me to accompany her on her journey to the locations described in this journal.”

“Nice. I am really glad for you. Have a good trip. Or a safe journey, whatever.”

Fortunately, Jerry Allen is somewhat accustomed to people like this. Without responding to the blunt professor, he starts telling: “The Diary of Priscilla Blextone contains very detailed descriptions of... let’s say, strange sea creatures in the waters around Australia. I brought the book along for you, so you can see it yourself”

“Lovely,” moans the professor. “Chicklit from the 18th century...” He grabs the diary; browses through the first pages without much interest until his eyes catch some curious illustrations. Surprised he reads the text Priscilla Blextone wrote more than two centuries ago underneath her impressively detailed drawings.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Jerry, “that’s quite interesting, isn’t it?”

“Hnn? Quite what?” He has another look at Jerry. “Young man, this sort of apparitions used to be observed frequently. Pure imagination,” the professor perks as he returns the book to the marine biologist.

“You think so? Do you really think that all these stories are based on fantasy?” Jerry Allen looks defiantly at the professor. “What would you say if we, the Navy and I, believe that we may have found these creatures?”

“I would say you probably drank too much or have a very vivid imagination. Good afternoon.”

“Then let me tell you about the most recent location I’ve been with the Navy, where we found the gray-green shadows described by Blextone and recorded them on video. Sea creatures with a unique way of communicating.” Jerry Allen laughs triumphantly: “Fantasy has become reality professor.”

The professor moves uneasily in his chair back and forth. “Hnn. Without scientific evidence, every theory remains fantasy,” he bluffs.

“That’s why I’m here.”

“To convince me? Do you have any conclusive evidence?”

“No, the Navy has asked me to invite you to prove our suspicion.”

“Hnn... and why hasn’t the Navy invited you?”

“Oh, they did. But the next few months I will be in Peru. I can help with the excavation of a Leviathan.”

Surprised the professor looks up at him. Livyatan melvillei, known as the Leviathan. A fossil killer sperm whale prey with a skull of three meters in length; teeth in upper and lower jaw, a huge predator; a monster.”

“You’re well informed,” laughs Jerry.

“Hnn, I read my literature ...”

“I notice. You know professor, if I had not been invited for the project with the killer sperm whale, I would certainly cooperate with the Navy. What a great project. As soon as the Leviathan turns up...” Allen needs to laugh himself. “Above ground, of course... Once we have uncovered the fossil and shipped it to the Natural History Museum, then I’ll be happy to help.”

“Agreed.”

“What do you mean?”

I agree with your proposal. I actually thought you were some sort of charlatan, but people who engage in this kind of projects... hnn, the Leviathan. Impressive. You’ve convinced me. I will help with the search for scientific proof of these sea creatures. But... if it turns out that the whole enterprise is a ‘hoax’, I am out. Immediately.”

“Great professor! I’m sure the Navy will be happy to hear this.” Jerry rummages in the pockets of his worn jacket.  “Here you are.”

Embarrassed the professor looks at the crumpled note held in front of his nose. “What am I to with that scrap of paper?”

“This is a list of potential candidates for the project. Intelligent students who must fulfill their social service; they will be outstanding for your team.”

The professor reads the names on the list one by one. “Hnn, funny. A Miss Blextone,” grins the corpulent man.

What’s in a name, Professor?” laughs Jerry Allen.

Hnn, yes. What’s the name of the game?

“AQUIFER, Professor. We call it Project AQUIFER.”


###



Wondering how this ends? Then order the first part of this fantastic series:

AQUIFER (1) Two worlds:


The unfathomable dark and deep ocean is not the place to expect a Shopping Queen. Obviously Pinkett Blextone didn’t volunteer to be here. In the year 2042 Earth is dealing with worldwide drought. There are high needs for fresh, drinking water. The self-appointed Shopping Expert, in daily life nothing but a regular shopaholic, investigates an unknown world hidden below the surface of the seas. Dressed stylish and fashionable, Pinky surprises everyone working on the mysterious project. Far away from civilisation the small, punchy Science Chick Pinky is the center of intrigues, romances and... danger.

Who are those mysterious creatures living in the deep? Why is de navy involved? And, even more important, who is dating who?

Aquifer is Science Chicklit. An unusual combination of genres. A story that takes place in the near future at the crossroads of science and shops. Funny Chicklit and exciting Young Adult / Science Fiction, mixed with a touch of fantasy, full of hilarious situations, fast turns and exciting events.


Available in Paperback and eBook at your favorite retailer. (Click to order now at Amazon, or Smashwords)





Copyright 2017 by Jeske & Eduard Meinema.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.



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Aquifer Bibliography

AQUIFER 0 - Onset (2017)

AQUIFER 1 - Two worlds (2016)

AQUIFER 2 – Crossing Lines (May 2017)

AQUIFER 3 – Venomous Virus (Autumn 2017)



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