“So we go there and deliver this chip to this Zirkus Crayt? What about Leo’s brother?” Boo asked. “Aren’t we going to try and find him too?”
“And let’s not forget all the people who want us dead,” Skits added helpfully. “The Djarik. The Aykari. Grimsley. Your ex-girlfriend. Wherever we go, somebody’s bound to catch up to us.”
“And the Icarus isn’t in the best shape,” Kat said. “If we don’t patch her up soon, there might not be an us to catch up to.”
Leo watched the captain’s fingers. Tap tap tap.
“You know what a good pirate would do,” he mused, talking to no one in particular. “He’d sell this datachip directly to the Coalition. Something like this, top secret intel, the Aykari would pay a fortune. More than enough to buy a little hole-in-the-wall somewhere far off everybody’s radar. Hang up our guns. Change our robes. Spend the rest of our days serving drinks and mopping vomit off the floor.”
“That’s something a good pirate would do,” Kat echoed. “The question is what are we going to do? We’re kind of caught up in this now, Baz.” She glanced at Leo. “And I mean all of us.”
Do this for me, Leo. It could mean the world.
His father didn’t just mean any world. He meant their world. He meant Earth. Home of chili dogs and Charizards and Miguel Ramos. Home to scripted television and fast-food restaurants and ponds with ducks and real life trees. Home to families with wooden signs on their doors. Bastian Black drummed on his knee, lost in the rhythm of his own thoughts. “You want to know how you can get away with being the worst pirate in the universe?”
Leo had a guess. Probably something about making it up as you go along or knowing how to make a quick getaway or somehow leaving with even less than you started with. But it turned out Leo didn’t know everything there was to know about pirates yet.
“The key is having the best crew,” Baz said.
Then he called for a vote.
Leo stood in the cockpit and looked out at the stars.
After their unanimous decision, the crew of the Icarus scattered to other parts of the ship. Boo was already rattling the bunks with his snoring, recovering from the banshee-like scream that had clearly taken too much out of him. Kat was in the cargo hold, eating the last of the Twinkies and taking inventory—an easy job given how low the Icarus was on supplies. Skits was finally finishing her repairs to the engine’s cooling system, some terrible song Leo just barely recognized belting through her speaker.
And Baz . . . when Leo passed his quarters, he was sitting on his bed, open treasure trunk at his feet, a shiny silver medal in his hand. Leo considered interrupting, asking him if he was okay, but thought better of it and left Bastian Black alone with his memories. Sometimes you can’t help but think about how things used to be.
Instead, he wandered to the front of the ship, still using Kat’s jacket to keep out the chill. He stood and stared into the never-ending darkness, stippled with a thousand stars that he didn’t even know the names of, forming constellations his father never taught him because the night sky seen from Earth is just one of an infinite number of patterns the universe can take.
Leo really detested space. Too much uncertainty. Too easy to lose your way. And so much distance between the things that mattered. He had no idea how far he was. From Gareth. From his father. From Earth. The space that separated them might as well be infinite.
But then Leo thought of his mother. An early morning making pancakes. He pictured her, pointing first to his head, then to his heart.
“I’ll find you,” Leo whispered into the canvas of stars. Somehow they would find each other. And then maybe, finally, they would find a home.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
Taking Sides
LIEUTENANT GRIGGSON TAPPED THE SCREEN IN another half-hearted attempt to get it to cooperate. Aykarian technology, he thought with a huff. The datapad was supposedly top-of-the-line, but the blasted thing froze up at least thirty times a day.
It was like that more and more with their stuff, he noticed. When it worked it was genius. Time-saving. Lifesaving, even. But it worked less than half the time, it seemed. It was because of the blasted war. Everything was deteriorating, breaking down. Supplies were scarce. He still carried an eight-year-old sidearm that barely held a charge and wore a uniform that looked like it might have been through seven wars already. No doubt the Aykari kept the best stuff for themselves—for their own soldiers and pilots and officers. But if you are going to come and drag us into this mess, Griggson thought, the least you could do is give us equipment that worked.
The screen finally glitched back to life and Lieutenant Griggson looked over the line of refugees waiting to be processed. He only dealt with humans. It was in his contract. It wasn’t that he was speciest, exactly. He had nothing against the Aykari per se, or any of the other races who had joined the Coalition. He would just rather spend his days helping out his own kind. And, lord, how they needed the help.
Half of today’s lot was from a transport that had been heading to a colony near Alpha Centauri when Djarik marauders slammed a torpedo in its side. The rest were stragglers, picked up from all over. Most of them would be hungry. Filthy. Some would be injured. Many would be looking for someone. Friends or family, fellow soldiers. And he would often have to deliver the bad news. I’m sorry, but we have no current record of that individual in our database.
All of them would have to be relocated.
It was sad, seeing their pale and hollow cheeks, knowing what they’d been through. Griggson hated his job some days, trudging through other people’s misery, reading their files, processing their requests. It was a small comfort whenever he could lift them up, put them in contact with a sister or an uncle, maybe even find a way to get them back home. But a lot of them no longer had a home, and they weren’t always interested in going back to Earth. Who could blame them? He certainly wasn’t going back there if he could help it. Not until the Aykari were finished extracting every last shard of ventasium they could find, and by then, what would be left? He tried not to think about it. Better to be here on this outpost several systems away, where at least you could breathe—provided the atmospheric generators didn’t break.
“Next.”
A young man stepped up and presented his datacard. He looked like he’d been through seven wars as well. Griggson almost didn’t want to know his story, but it flashed on-screen regardless.
“How’s it going, kid?” he said, making small talk while he quickly scanned the file. It was a stupid question, he knew. If you were standing here, it meant that things were about as bad as they could be. Griggson read the highlighted bits, piecing together the essentials. This kid had seen some action recently.
All he said, though, was “I’m all right.”
“Looks here like you were attacked by the Djarik and taken prisoner?”
“Twice,” the kid said softly, then louder, as if he remembered that he still had a voice, “We were attacked by them twice. The first time they left us stranded. Most of us anyways. The second time they came and took us all prisoner.”
“But you and several other members of your crew managed to overcome the guards and take control of the Djarik ship that was transporting you?”
“Yes, sir. There were thirty of us and only ten guards. Captain Saito was in charge. She—” The boy’s voice softened again. “She didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, son,” Griggson said. He didn’t know Saito from any of the other officers whose names came up KIA, but you always felt the need to apologize. Good human lives lost in this alien war. “You escaped and made it here safe, though. That’s pretty remarkable. No telling what those Djarik scumbags would have done with you. You’re lucky to be alive, you know that?”
The boy nodded. Griggson knew he was waiting for something. A question he was afraid to ask. But he’d asked it already. It was right there in his file. “Says here you have a father and brother?”
“Yes, sir
,” the boy said, leaning so close it looked like he might fall over, his eyes suddenly hopeful.
Griggson hated that look. The expectant look. Like watching a dying fire coughing up its one last spark.
“I’m sorry, son. Unfortunately I’ve got nothing on their current whereabouts. The last known record of either of them was aboard your ship, the Beagle, right before it was attacked.”
“The first time,” the boy said.
“Right. The first time. Your father’s name is Calvin? Calvin Fender?”
“Dr. Calvin Fender,” the boy said.
Griggson thought maybe he’d heard that name before, at least. Maybe seen it in the newsfeeds somewhere, but he couldn’t quite recall. Who could even keep up with the news anymore? “I’d love to help you get back to them, son. And I will do my best to keep digging around, but in the meantime we need to find somewhere you can go. Somewhere safe.” He was about to pull up a list of all the nearby Coalition outposts and holding facilities when the boy cleared his throat.
“Actually, sir. I’d like to join up.”
“Excuse me?”
“Coalition forces. I want to join. I want to fight. I’m still a little young, I know, but I’ve got three years’ experience on a Coalition vessel and I know my way around a ship. Besides, I think my recent actions should count for something.”
Recent actions. Thirty unarmed humans—most of them support staff and engineers—overwhelming their Djarik captors and seizing control of the ship? Yes. It certainly counted for something. That wasn’t the problem. The kid’s age wasn’t a problem either. The Coalition would take him at seventeen. They’d recruited younger. The problem was Griggson—everything he’d seen, everything he knew—and what this kid knew as well. Especially as the lieutenant passed his eyes over the entry about the kid’s mother, the date deceased. Griggson still remembered exactly where he’d been the day Earth was set on fire—the moment humanity’s hand was forced. Sitting in a bar in Ottawa with his brother, both of them staring dumbly at the screens hanging in every corner, showing the carnage from downtown Toronto.
He massaged his temples with the knuckles of his thumbs. “Son, you know better than most what the Djarik are like. What they’re capable of. Don’t get me wrong. The Coalition will take all the volunteers they can get right now. But if you ask me—and this is just between us,” Griggson whispered, leaning in closer, “I say let the Aykari win their own freking war. I think you’ve suffered enough, don’t you?”
“Excuse me, sir,” the young man said. “But I can’t. For all I know, my brother and father are still out there somewhere. And if they aren’t, it’s all because of the Djarik. I’ve lost everything because of them.”
Griggson looked over the others still waiting in line. He could see there was no point in arguing. Besides, it wasn’t his decision to make. Just pass him off to the next official and maybe when he saw what was involved, this kid would get some sense and reconsider. The lieutenant sighed.
“I don’t do recruiting. But I can point you in the right direction.” Maybe he would get lucky and they would sit him behind a desk where he’d never have to squeeze a trigger or pilot a starfighter. Lieutenant Griggson made a few notes on the young man’s file and then handed his datacard back. “There you go, son. Take this to building five—the big dome near the center of the outpost. They can help you there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The young man turned to go, and in that moment Lieutenant Griggson was sure he would never see him again.
“Mr. Fender,” Griggson called out.
“Gareth, sir,” the young man said.
“Right. Gareth. I hope you find your family.”
The boy nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “Me too.”
He turned and walked away. Lieutenant Griggson pointed to the next poor soul in line.
Acknowledgments
You can get away with being the worst pirate in the universe so long as you have the best crew. You can get away with publishing your first sprawling space opera if you are similarly blessed. Leo and the rest of the scoundrels of the Icarus would never have made it out of the hangar if it weren’t for the dedication, inspiration, creativity, and hard work of many.
Thanks to the team at Adam’s Literary who somehow keep the ship that is my writing career flying even when I seem to have no clear destination in mind. To the stalwart crew at Harper Collins—David DeWitt, Amy Ryan, Kathryn Silsand, Martha Schwartz, and Tiara Kittrell—thank you for helping me turn this rusted junk pile of words into something space-worthy. To Aveline Stokart for creating a cover that perfectly captures the feeling of the book and to Vaishali Nayak and Sam Benson for launching that book out into the universe. To Deb Kovacs and Donna Bray for making such swashbuckling, planet-spanning adventures possible. Finally to Jordan Brown, the best copilot a space pirate could ask for. Thanks for always having my back.
When I was a boy between the ages of six and eight, I lived for every other Friday. That’s when my mother would cash her paycheck and take me to Target, where I could pick out one two-dollar Kenner Star Wars action figure—a splurge, given my family’s rocky finances. I would make my selection, stowing away copies of the ones I couldn’t buy yet in secret places throughout the store, hoping they would still be there two weeks down the road (they never were, and I’m sure the Target employees weren’t happy to find Greedo leering from behind a stack of pantyhose). Then I would take my new jedi, bounty hunter, or droid home and engage in living-roomwide warfare, reenacting some familiar scenes but mostly inventing new ones, crafting epic adventures in my head. Of course that Friday’s purchase—tight jointed and armed with accessories that I would probably soon lose—would be central to the story line, a new hero or villain to plot with.
My mother would check on me once in a while, standing in the hallway, listening to my pew-pews and spit-laden explosions, and I would look up only briefly and smile so that she would go away and let me get back to the alternative universe I was lost in.
I realize now that the two dollars she spent every other Friday on a piece of molded plastic was as much for her as it was for me—so that she could give me something she never had, given her tough childhood: a chance to play, to escape, to explore, to live out my fantasies. Money well spent so that she could see that smile on my face as I blasted my way through the galaxy.
My mother passed away in the spring of 2020, making this the first book of mine that she never got a chance to read. But there is no doubt that she helped create it—with the stories she read to me and the songs that she sang and the movies she took me to. She helped create it every other Friday, at two precious dollars a pop. She helped create it in the forty years that followed by pushing me to follow my passion and put my fantasies on paper. She was my muse.
This book is for her.
About the Author
PHOTO BY KEIRA DUBACH
JOHN DAVID ANDERSON is the author of several beloved and bestselling books for kids. He is the author of the New York Times Notable Book Ms. Bixby’s Last Day, Posted, Granted, One Last Shot, and many more. A dedicated root beer connoisseur and chocolate fiend, he lives with his wonderful wife, two frawesome kids, and clumsy cat, Smudge, in Indianapolis, Indiana. You can visit him online at www.johndavidanderson.org.
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Books by John David Anderson
One Last Shot
Finding Orion
Granted
Posted
Ms. Bixby’s Last Day
The Dungeoneers
Minion
Sidekicked
Copyright
Walden Pond Press is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
STOWAWAY. Copyright © 2021 by John David Anderson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of
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Cover art © 2021 by Aveline Stokart
Cover design by David DeWitt
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2020952900
Digital Edition AUGUST 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-298596-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-298594-1
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2122232425PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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