The bag itself was crusted with sharp-edged glass beads and glittering sequins, and its long handles meant that, when wielded by an arm as strong as Really Annoying Girl’s, it was lethal.
And right now it fell in a high arc down upon the top of the goon’s head.
‘Ow!’ he yelped, a look of astonishment on his face.
‘I knew you was gonna say that!’ said Really Annoying Girl exultantly.
The bag swung again – upwards, this time, catching the kid right between the legs.
‘Nnnnngthh!’ he groaned.
‘I absolutely knew you was gonna say that.’
He hobbled away, his hands cupped protectively around his nether regions, as if he were carrying a couple of over-ripe tomatoes.
By this stage Melvyn and Alexander had picked themselves up. Really Annoying Girl, Superstrong Jamie, Titch and the Human Hurricane stood with them, shoulder to shoulder.
Alexander felt something he’d never felt before. He felt like he was part of something bigger than himself.
Bigger and stronger.
But Big Mac was not yet defeated. Being a serious bully requires dedication and a certain amount of self-belief as well as a lot of beef. And Big Mac was a very serious bully. He fixed Alexander and the others with a hard stare, and began to walk slowly towards them.
The goons had begun to gather behind their leader, and they also moved forward menacingly, even if some of them were limping or cradling various parts of their bodies like bruised fruit.
‘I suppose you think you’ve done something brave, eh?’ Big Mac said, smiling the sort of smile you’d see on an evil emperor, about to order his enemies to be lowered into a pit of scorpions and snakes. ‘I know you dweebs reckon that if you stick together you can stand up to me. But, guess what? You’re wrong, very wrong. You can’t. Ever been bowling? Ever seen the pins try to stand up to the bowling ball? By the way, in case you don’t get it, you’re the pins and I’m the ball.’
Alexander knew that it was his job to step forward now and say something clever. He was supposed to be the genius. A brilliant witticism, a devastatingly cutting remark, that’s what he needed. The trouble was, he was only the genius when he wore Einstein’s underpants, and Einstein’s underpants were in his bag. And his bag was in his locker. And the locker was far, far away. He tried to recapture some of that slight intellectual fizz he’d felt when he wore the pants the first time. Could it be that some of the brilliance had rubbed off on him, been mysteriously absorbed, a bit like radioactivity?
Perhaps, he thought, if he just went for it, his subconscious would take control, and the brilliance would activate itself inside his brain.
He stepped forward to meet Big Mac.
The smile on Big Mac’s face grew wider for a moment. Alexander felt as though two hands were wringing out his internal organs like a dishcloth. He prayed that the clever thoughts would arrive in time to save him from getting the kind of beating you’d use on a couple of eggs to make an omelette.
And then something in Big Mac’s face changed. The smile wavered, came briefly back, then faltered again. An unaccustomed uncertainty entered his eyes. Could Big Mac, Alexander wondered, sense that he was up against the greatest mind of his generation? That he was about to be outwitted by a brain saturated with radioactive genius?
The goons behind Big Mac also looked as if they’d seen something they’d rather not have seen, like an earwig in their chips.
Then Alexander heard it. A high-pitched keening sound, gradually getting louder. In seconds it had become a deafening wail.
Alexander turned, and saw.
CHAPTER 21
THE FIRST BATTLE: FINAL PHASE
IT WAS TORTOISE Boy, flinging himself through the open doorway.
His face was contorted, so he looked as if he were wearing one of the savage war masks of the Polynesian cannibals. But his face was not the truly scary thing about him.
It was Cedric.
Yes, once again Tortoise Boy was charging with Cedric raised high above his head in the classic tortoise attack position. But this time, rather than looking faintly embarrassed about the whole business, Cedric was angry. No, he was beyond angry. Cedric was enraged. He was like one of those armoured horses from the time of knights – trained for battle, charging as one with the rider, teeth and hooves carving a swathe through all in their way. Or, as his master had predicted, like a war elephant, goaded and jabbed beyond endurance, and now transformed into an unstoppable killing machine.
It looked for a moment as if Big Mac and his boys would try to withstand the onslaught. They drew together like Roman legionaries in the formation known, ironically, as ‘the Tortoise’. But they lacked the shields, the discipline and the courage. Before Tortoise Boy and Cedric reached them, they broke, they fled. They ran out of room 111 like chickens fleeing before a fox.
Tortoise Boy pursued them down the corridor for a few metres, still yelling that uncanny, high-pitched war cry. Then he drew back his arm. He was going to hurl Cedric at Big Mac, aiming for his skull, which would in all probability crack open like an egg. And Cedric, in his state of berserker battle-fury, possessed as he was by the ancient Norse war gods, seemed willing – indeed, yearned – to be thrown, and he flapped his scaly little legs like a baby bird practising flight.
Alexander stopped him (the ‘him’ being Tortoise Boy rather than Cedric). He caught his wrist. Tortoise Boy spun round, ready to fight even his own side if they got in his way.
‘Leave it,’ said Alexander soothingly. ‘They’re gone. We’ve won.’
Tortoise Boy’s face relaxed. Cedric may have looked a little disappointed, his dreams of flight for now postponed. But deep down he must also have known that the job was done, and that there are times when the best strategy is to allow your enemy to leave the field.
Now the group gathered together in a circle, facing inwards.
Alexander the Genius;
Melvyn Unluckeon;
Esther Buttle, the Really Annoying Girl;
Jamie Superstrong;
Ed the Human Hurricane;
Magic Titch.
And now, joining them again, Felicity Secretarion who, Alexander realized, must have gone to round up the others to help him and Melvyn in their time of need.
Each face glowed with pride, and no one spoke for a while.
‘That was mighty cool,’ said Melvyn eventually.
‘That was only the first battle,’ said Alexander. ‘Our real work begins now.’
And at that moment the bell rang for the end of the lunch break and the beginning of afternoon lessons.
CHAPTER 22
REBELLION?
MEANWHILE, ON THE Borgia flagship, Admiral Thlugg wafted a command into one of the smellocaster tubes: Nutmeg, pork sausage, camomile, wet dog, wet dog, wet dog, Cornish pasty, badger poo.
Or: ‘Attention to the brig. Bring the prisoner to me now. With a little sweet-and-sour sauce on the side. And a carafe of pancreas wine.’
A few minutes later a somewhat bedraggled-looking Borgia was brought before Admiral Thlugg. He was a quaking mess, shaling and wambling and emitting meaningless wafts of gas from his venting tubes. The marks of torture were evident on his soft body: vivid blue stripes and deep crimson gouges.
‘So, tell me, my dear Jlatt,’ sighed Thlugg, ‘did you really think that you could get away with it? A conspiracy, here, aboard my own flagship? Really, my old friend, I thought better of your intelligence, if not your loyalty.’
‘Admiral, I . . . I . . . there was no intention . . . I did not mean—’
‘SILENCE!’
The stench released by Thlugg’s fury and Jlatt’s fear was powerful enough to suffocate a horse, if one had been present. (Thlugg had never eaten horse, and would probably have welcomed the opportunity.)
‘You will now tell me the names of your co-conspirators.’
‘But I swear there were—’
And that was as far as Jlatt got, because at that momen
t Admiral Thlugg lost patience, and slithered over him, entirely engulfing the smaller Borgia in his gelatinous bulk. Imagine a plate of jelly flopping on top of a wine gum.
The other crew members on the command deck of the ship were divided between those who looked away, appalled at the spectacle of one Borgia eating another, and those who gazed on, enraptured, and a little peckish.
The conspiracy of which Admiral Thlugg had spoken was not entirely the product of his paranoia. There had been rumblings among the junior officers that the humans were to be reserved for the Borgia elite back on the home planet of TZ789644444 (represented in the Borgia language by the smell of a tramp roasting marshmallows over a fire made from his own discarded vest and underpants). There was also another, more radical, item on the rebels’ agenda. Was it really morally acceptable, some of them had begun to ask, to eat fellow sentient beings, creatures not much less intelligent than the Borgia themselves – even if they were as physically repellent as the humans?
It was this, or the rumour of it, that had forced Thlugg to act with such rigour. The Borgia creed was simple. It had two parts.
Part 1: If it moves, kill it.
Part 2: When you’ve killed it, eat it.
Thlugg was not the kind of Borgia to look kindly upon a modification of this creed so that it looked something like:
Part 1: If it moves, have a polite chat with it.
Part 2: After the chat, say cheery-bye, and exchange Christmas cards for the next few years, until one of you forgets or you make some new friends, or you just drift apart and don’t really see the point any more. Part 3:Then possibly eat them. But only maybe. You know, if there’s nothing else in the fridge.
The conspiracy had not reached the point of mutiny. Jlatt was merely compiling a list of grievances and complaints, which he’d accidentally left in the lavatory. The list was taken to Thlugg, and Jlatt’s fate was sealed.
It was all over in a few minutes. Thlugg slithered off the remains of Jlatt – little more than a stain, shaped, as stains so often are, like Australia.
The point had been made. The scene had been broadcast live to the rest of the ship, smellocasters carrying each sniff of action to every corner of the vessel. There would be no more dissent. Admiral Thlugg vented a long, slow, satisfied gaseous exhalation. It smelled of Jlatt. And cheese.
CHAPTER 23
THE PICTURE IN THE NUMBERS
THAT EVENING ALEXANDER was lying on his bed, mulling over the events of the day: the distinctly strange recruitment campaign, the first titanic battle, the way they’d become a team, forged in the heat of war. And of course there was the added bonus that they would never have to worry about Big Mac again. Yes, all in all it had been a good day. It hardly seemed to matter whether Otto’s ideas were crazy or not.
Then he heard the little electronic tune from his laptop speakers that meant someone wanted to videochat. The only person who ever tried to videochat with Alexander was Melvyn, and it was never very successful. They’d spend about ten minutes getting it properly set up, and then find they had nothing much to say except, ‘Well, bye then.’ ‘Yeah, see you tomorrow.’
He got something of a shock, then, when he went to his desk and saw what was on his laptop screen. For a second he thought it might actually be one of the bloodthirsty aliens Uncle Otto had raved about. Its head – Alexander knew it was a head because it was perched on top of a pair of shoulders – seemed to be made entirely of a shiny metallic substance, except for two deep black eyes.
‘Do not be alarmed.’
The voice was grating and metallic, yet strangely familiar.
‘Who the heck . . . ?’ said Alexander. Then he realized. ‘Otto, where are you? And why have you got a load of silver foil wrapped around your head?’
‘Otto? Otto? Never heard of him. I am Mr Reginald Fly.’
Then Uncle Otto lifted up the silver foil wrapping and winked at Alexander, adding in a whisper, ‘This messes with their reception. I’m in the computer room at St Mungo’s psychiatric unit. We get half an hour’s Internet access a day. I’ve been doing more research.’ He replaced the foil mask and continued urgently, ‘I’ve hacked into the NATO Combined Command computer systems. I was looking for evidence of their preparations. BUT THEY ARE NOT PREPARED. THEY ARE NOT PREPARED AT ALL. We are wide open. Like little lambs gambolling in the field as the wolf approaches. Luckily, I have found a few kindred spirits. Others like myself. I have made contact through the Internet. We’ve been watching and waiting. Some, of course, are cranks. Others are great geniuses, almost matching my own stature. They have confirmed my findings. In fact, they have widened my understanding. The Earth is confronted with more than one peril. The lambs are not just faced with the prowling wolf, but with fire, flood, plague, famine. The universe itself is turning against us.’
‘The universe? What do you mean, Uncle?’ Something about Otto’s tone utterly unnerved Alexander. There was a new seriousness that commanded respect.
The metal-faced Otto paused as if considering great matters. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘It’s too much for a mere child – even if he has the you know whats of the greatest scientist who ever lived. All I can ask of you is to confront one evil at a time. Now, tell me, you have the printouts, the data?’
‘From your computers? Yeah. I used my laptop to analyse it. You know, convert it from binary, check it for correlations and patterns. And I think you’re right. There’s something there. Some regularities. But, well, I can’t really make head or tail of them. To me it still just looks like numbers.’
‘That’s because you’re using your computer to do the thinking for you. Science is an art, and great scientists are artists. They feel the patterns, they hear the numbers like music. Get the data out for me.’
The printouts were folded up in Alexander’s bookshelf. He got them and spread them out on the desk.
‘Now look at them. Look at them properly, deeply. Use your soul as well as your brain.’
Alexander gazed at the lines of figures.
‘Now, what do you see? No, I mean, what do you feel?’
This is what Alexander saw:
He sighed. ‘Like I said, just numbers. I don’t really see the point . . .’
‘Concentrate!’
‘I’m trying!’
The numbers began to swim around in a blurry cloud.
‘This is just giving me a headache.’
‘As I suspected. It’s time.’
‘Time for what?’
‘I think you know.’
Strangely, Alexander did know. If he was going to understand these figures, understand them truly and deeply, then he was going to need some extra help. He retrieved the underpants from their hiding place beneath his bed.
‘I still feel an idiot for doing this, you know,’ he said to the metal face in the screen.
‘Feeling like an idiot is one of the defining characteristics of genius,’ Otto replied.
And so Alexander put the pants on his head. He could have been wrong, but for a moment he thought he heard a sort of half-choked laugh emerge from under the silver foil.
‘What now?’ he asked, a little annoyed as well as embarrassed.
‘Look again at the data.’
‘It’s a waste of—’
‘Just do it!’
So once again Alexander stared at the numbers on the printed sheet. Again they seemed to blur and fuzz and drift like plankton. He used every gram of mental energy he had to squeeze the meaning out of them. He even tried to channel his mind through the underpants. He was just about to give up when something odd happened.
The numbers were still there, and yet they had changed.
He rubbed his eyes.
‘Are you seeing it? Are you feeling it?’ urged Otto.
‘I . . . I . . . I don’t know.’
Alexander looked again. Either he was going mad or, yes, a pattern was emerging from the numbers. And it wasn’t just that he was seeing some connection between the figures. That
’s what he thought he was supposed to be looking for, like one of those problems where you have a sequence of numbers – say, 1, 3, 5, 7, 11 – and you have to work out what the link is so you can guess the next in the series.
No, this was actually a pattern of some kind. He was seeing or feeling an image.
Otto had been studying his face. ‘You see it, don’t you?’ he said fervently.
‘Something, yes. But what is it?’
‘Look again and tell me.’
‘It’s a shape. I don’t know, a blob—’
‘Not a blob!’
‘It’s a thing. It’s . . . It’s . . . It’s one of them, isn’t it, Uncle?’
‘Oh yes.’
Alexander gulped. He felt suddenly afraid, very afraid.
‘The next page – what do you see?’
Alexander gazed again. And this time the image came more quickly.
‘I don’t know. It’s kind of beautiful. Is it an angel?’
Otto laughed bitterly. ‘An angel? That’s a good one. Yes, it’s an angel. The Angel of Death.’
And again, as he gazed at the shape in the numbers, Alexander felt the cold hand of fear grip his entrails.
‘They are coming. That is their ship.’
Alexander nodded numbly.
‘Right, now tell me, Alexander, have you begun?’
‘Begun?’
‘Your mission. The fightback.’
‘Well, yes. Today we began – we more than began. I found my heroes, the guys who are going to save the world.’
‘Excellent, excellent. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘But I’m not sure what exactly we’re supposed to be doing . . .’
‘Then I shall tell you. You must—’
But then the picture on the laptop began to break up, and the sound of Otto’s voice was obscured by static.
‘Uncle! Uncle!’ yelled Alexander. But it was too late. The weblink was down. But just before the picture of Otto in his crazy silver mask disappeared, Alexander saw – or thought he saw – another image take its place. It looked like this:
Einstein's Underpants--And How They Saved the World Page 6