Stuck on Earth

by David Klass

  ALSO BY DAVID KLASS

  Timelock

  Whirlwind

  Firestorm

  Dark Angel

  Home of the Braves

  You Don’t Know Me

  Screen Test

  Danger Zone

  California Blue

  STUCK ON EARTH

  DAVID KLASS

  STUCK

  ON

  EARTH

  FRANCES FOSTER BOOKS

  Farrar Straus Giroux

  New York

  Copyright © 2010 by David Klass

  All rights reserved

  Distributed in Canada by D&M Publishers, Inc.

  Printed in February 2010 in the United States of America

  by RR Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia

  Designed by Jay Colvin

  First edition, 2010

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  www.fsgkidsbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Klass, David.

  Stuck on Earth / David Klass.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: On a secret mission to evaluate whether the human race should be annihilated, a space alien inhabits the body of a bullied fourteen-year-old boy.

  ISBN: 978-0-374-39951-1

  [1. Extraterrestrial beings—Fiction. 2. Bullying—Fiction. 3. Science fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.K67813St 2010

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008048133

  For Anatol

  STUCK ON EARTH

  1

  We are skimming over the New Jersey countryside in full search mode, hunting a fourteen-year-old. Our shields are up, and no humans can possibly spot us, even with the aid of their primitive “radar” and “sonar” technologies.

  Earth’s lone moon is in the sky above us. This is indeed a pretty planet. I can see why the Lugonians, whose sun is about to supernova, covet it. Beneath us are dwelling places known as “houses” separated by expanses of unused space termed “lawns” that convey status on property owners by showing how much land they can afford to waste.

  A target subject has just been identified! The circumstances are favorable for an extraction—he is sitting alone eating a “snack”—an unnecessary meal that is known to be unhealthy and is consumed at odd hours. It falls under the category of addictive behavior that most Homo sapiens find impossible to resist.

  Cellular spectroscopy is positive. This specimen is Caucasian, fourteen years old, and in good health. Weak areas appear to be the teeth, where a metallic correction device known as “braces” has been fastened, and the eyes, where ocular aids called “glasses” have been appended with the help of two plastic rods hooked around the ears.

  Brain scans show an above average human intelligence quotient, with particularly high cognitive and imaginative ability. A probe of long-term memory reveals that the specimen is named Tom Filber, he lives with his parents in a small house on Beech Avenue, and he has a sister named Sally with whom he is in a constant state of conflict that sometimes escalates into violence.

  All systems are go! The Preceptor Supervisor has just approved the extraction. I, Ketchvar III, prepare myself to inhabit the body and mind of an infinitely lower life-form. I remind myself that my mission is vitally necessary—we must decide soon if the human species should be preserved or wiped out. We drop low in our ship till we are hovering above the chimney of 330 Beech Avenue.

  We have just established direct visual surveillance of the specimen. He is sitting on his front porch, devouring large flakes of dehydrated potato, drained of all nutritional value and flavored with artificial taste stimulants. Every now and then he apparently finds a flake not to his liking, spits it to the floor, and crushes it under the heel of his boot.

  Our Mission Engineer readies the paralysis ray. We all turn toward our Preceptor Supervisor, who gives the go-ahead.

  The ray is turned on. Specimen Filber freezes in midchew. Sensors show a wild spike in his adrenaline and a rapid acceleration of his heartbeat—he knows something is happening to him, but he cannot make a sound or move a muscle.

  Antigravity suction commences immediately. He is lifted off the porch and drawn into the cargo bay of our spaceship. The specimen still cannot move or speak, but he stares back at us through his ocular aids with big, brown, frightened human eyes.

  2

  Do not be alarmed, Earthling,” I say, crawling out of my protective shell. Homo sapiens are large and ugly creatures, but I try not to show distaste. I remind myself that to this human I must resemble the Earth organism known as a snail.

  Tom Filber cannot move a muscle. Even the pupils of his eyes cannot dilate. Still, the human face is extremely expressive and his terror shows clearly. The paralysis ray did not freeze his major internal organs, and his heart rate continues to climb precipitously. I’m afraid he may undergo cardiac arrest if I do not find a way to calm his fears.

  “Hello, Tom. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? My name is Ketchvar. Please try to relax. Would you like a sip of water?”

  I modify the paralysis ray to return control of his vocal cords, larynx, and the other bodily parts required for speech.

  Tom Filber slowly opens his mouth and licks his lips. “Please don’t eat me,” he whispers. “I have a rash and it’s highly contagious, so if you eat me you’ll catch it and die.”

  “I have no plans to ingest you,” I tell him. I try to recall some other typical human fears about extraterrestrials and attempt to set his mind at ease. “Nor am I interested in dissecting you to learn about human anatomy. And here’s some more good news, Tom—I also do not intend to try to impregnate you.”

  My reassurances do not have the intended soothing effect. His blood pressure surges and he begins hyperventilating. He moistens his lips with his tongue again and whispers, “Take my sister.”

  Human thought processes are notoriously difficult to follow. “Take her for what?” I ask.

  “For whatever,” he says. “She’s fatter than I am so she’s probably more delicious to eat. And she’s a girl so she can have your babies. And she gets A’s in school so if you want to dissect a human brain, hers would be much better than mine. That’s her window, right there. She’s alone, practicing her cello. Take her, and put me back. I swear I won’t tell anyone.”

  “You were chosen because you’re the perfect age,” I tell him. “We need a fourteen-year-old. It is, in a way, a great honor.”

  “The perfect age for what?” he whispers suspiciously, watching me slither toward him.

  “It won’t hurt,” I promise him. “It will all be over in a second.”

  “What won’t hurt? What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing terrible, so try to stay calm,” I assure him, climbing up his leg. “I’m just going to slither through your nostril, crawl into your cranium, and take possession of your brain.”

  “No!” he says, pleading desperately. “Not my brain! Anything but that!” Somehow, despite the biomagnetic grip of the paralysis ray, a tear squeezes out of his right eye and runs down his cheek. “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll do my homework and brush my teeth and pray to God and be nice to Sally and eat less sweets and make my bed and . . .”

  I have reached his hip. “None of that is necessary,” I tell him. “Please don’t change on my account, Tom Filber. I need you to stay just the way you are. You’re going to help me. We’re going to work together.”

  The human abruptly stops begging and making promises, and his whisper hardens. “Listen, you little piece of Martian snot. Get down from me right now and I might let you slime away and live. I won’t step on you or drop you in salt water. You crawl up one inch higher, just one more inch, and I swear to God I’ll squash you like a potato chip! Not
one more inch. I’M WARNING YOU!”

  I crawl up his shoulder to his neck.

  He begins to heave in great gasps of air. “Okay, look, let’s make a deal. You’re in luck. I know where it is.”

  “Where what is?” I ask, baffled.

  “Whatever you’re after,” he gasps quickly. “The key. The formula. The stuff. I know where they’ve hidden it. I can get it for you. You think I won’t because I love the human race? Hah! I hate them all. I have more in common with you. Let’s work together. Tell me what you want and I’ll get it. We’ll split the take. Fifty-fifty. Deal?”

  I reach his chin.

  “Did I say fifty-fifty? I mean sixty-forty. Seventy-thirty. Oh, GOD, STOP! GOD, GOD, GOD! Oh, GOD. MOMMY!”

  He is truly in danger of a life-threatening coronary event. There is no time to lose.

  I take a breath and go in through the left nasal passage. It is dark and slimy so I don’t waste time. Right turn, left turn, squeeze through, crawl around, slither over, and there it is! The human brain—the organ that has made these furless warm-blooded bipeds the laughingstock of the universe. I enfold it, and using the Thromborg Technique, I infuse myself into it and become Tom Filber.

  3

  I, Ketchvar III, am a Sandovinian, from the planet Sandoval IV. Our bodies are small and weak, and we spend our lives in protective shells, relying on robots to accomplish even the simplest tasks.

  Tom Filber’s body feels terribly exposed, but it is also strangely liberating to have eyes, ears, nose, and skin exposed to the open air. This big, bony body is a giant new machine, and it takes me a few minutes to get the hang of it. I lurch around the spaceship, fall down on my rear end, and get back up.

  But I don’t have long to practice walking. Once an extraction has been performed, the insertion must take place almost immediately or the risk that the specimen’s absence will be discovered by his fellow humans increases exponentially.

  In this case, I see that Mrs. Filber has walked onto the porch and is sweeping up the chips and shouting, “Tom, where are you? I warned you if you left chips on the floor again I’d fix your wagon! You made this mess so come and pay the piper!” She is a big woman, and her voice is getting louder by the moment. “DON’T MAKE ME FIND YOU, TOM, OR YOU’LL REGRET IT!”

  Why Tom’s mother would want to fix a wagon because he spilled chips on the floor is not clear, nor do I understand why a piper needs to be paid. But there’s clearly no time to lose. I must descend to 330 Beech Avenue and insert myself into human society right away. However, one final task must be attended to.

  Tom Filber’s consciousness was displaced during the Thromborg Technique. Now I must lock it into a Ragwellian Bubble and suspend it inside his parietal lobe. When my mission is finished and I am ready to relinquish control of this body, I will restore Tom’s consciousness to its rightful place. Till then, his essence will float, observing everything that happens through the window of the bubble but incapable of resisting or taking any willful actions. I will be able to access his consciousness when I require human expertise on how to deal with a situation that exceeds my ability to understand or improvise.

  Tom Filber does not go easily into the bubble. His consciousness and will are surprisingly strong for such a primitive life-form. Meanwhile, Mrs. Filber is getting so loud that someone in a nearby house shouts for her to put a lid on it. Clearly, the time element is critical. I force Tom into the bubble, lock it up, and reverse the antigravity suction.

  Out the cargo bay door I float, down to the darkest patch of lawn on the side of Tom’s porch. No one sees me descend to Earth.

  I land on a carpet of grass. I see right away that I was wrong about the reason for these lawns. They are not merely status symbols. They have an unexpected pleasantness to them—a soft, embracing feel and a sweet smell. Also, the lawn and the old crab apple tree growing out of it provide some sense of separation from the neighboring house at 332 Beech Avenue.

  This separation is apparently not suffcient, because as I walk quickly toward the porch I hear Mrs. Filber—whom I shall hereafter refer to as my mother—shout out, “Tom, don’t make me count! I’m warning you for the last time. ALL RIGHT, I’M COUNTING! TEN, NINE, EIGHT . . .”

  And a male voice from the window of 332 Beech Avenue calls out: “RUTH FILBER, ARE YOU LAUNCHING A ROCKET OUT THERE? PUT A LID ON IT OR I’M GOING TO CALL THE COPS!”

  My mother breaks off from her countdown to respond: “GO AHEAD AND CALL THEM. I’D HAVE SOME THINGS TO TELL THEM ABOUT THE GOINGS-ON AT YOUR PLACE, WOULDN’T I? LEAVING CHILDREN UNSUPERVISED ALL NIGHT. SEVEN, SIX, FIVE.”

  “I work nights. What else can I do?” the voice from the window replies in a more reasonable tone.

  “YOU CAN DO JUST WHAT I’M DOING NOW, AND TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR KIDS!” my mother shouts back. “Now, do you have anything else to say to me right now, or can I discipline my son in peace?”

  The window slams shut, and my mother says, “Tom, I’m at five seconds. FOUR. THREE . . .”

  I can see her clearly now. Standing atop the porch steps, backlit by the fluorescent bulb, she looks enormous. She is holding a broom in her hands like some sort of fearsome cudgel, and I hesitate a second more.

  “TWO!” she calls out. “TOM, I SAID TWO! NEXT COMES ONE. THIS IS YOUR VERY LAST WARNING. I’LL GROUND YOU FOR A MONTH. YOU’LL LOSE ALL COMPUTER AND TV PRIVILEGES. YOU’LL HAVE TO MAKE YOUR SISTER’S BED. TWO FOR THE LAST TIME. OKAY, ONE. GOING ONCE. GOING TWICE . . .”

  I walk out of the darkness into the light, open my mouth, and speak with a human voice for the very first time: “Good evening, Mother. You’re looking quite well. I was just out for a brief constitutional.”

  She looks back at me, mouth agape. “Brief what?”

  “Constitutional,” I repeat, giving her one of those “smiles” that Earthlings apparently find calming. “A walk taken regularly for one’s health. Is it not a lovely evening?”

  “I’m going to give you a constitutional,” she announces, “right in the backside.” She descends the stairs, broom in hand. No doubt if she knew the fate of the human race might be forever sealed by her violent behavior she would act with more restraint. But I can’t tell her that.

  Nor do I want to get hit by her broom. I quickly access the consciousness of Tom Filber in the Ragwellian Bubble. Will she really hit me or is she bluffing?

  Are you kidding? She’ll swat you the first chance she gets.

  Does it hurt?

  Like hell.

  Is that a lot?

  Damn straight.

  She has reached the bottom of the stairs and is advancing on me, broom held at the ready.

  What should I do?

  Duck behind the tree and then make a run for it.

  I run behind the tree. A squirrel squints down at me from a high branch. This is a medium-size rodent of the family Sciuridae, and I would enjoy examining it further. Unfortunately, I am being pursued around the tree trunk by my mother who is swinging her broom at me.

  “Don’t you think I have better things to do than clean up your messes!” she demands furiously. “What were you doing out here anyway? Were you sneaking a cigarette? Let me smell your breath. Were you looking up into Michelle Peabody’s window? Ha, got you!”

  She pretends to circle the tree one way, then quickly darts back the other. I believe this is what humans call a feint. She executes the maneuver with surprising deftness for a woman of her size and bulk.

  The broom makes solid contact with my backside. I have never been violently attacked by another life-form in over two thousand years of life. The pain from the blow is bad enough, but the anger behind it and the indignity of being treated this way are even worse.

  I am tempted to abort my mission, beam myself back to the ship, and tell the Preceptor to eliminate the entire species. But Homo sapiens deserve a fair chance, even if things are not starting out promisingly. So I take Tom Filber’s suggestion and make a run for it, dodging around her follow-up swing
and heading straight for the house.

  4

  Up the stairs I go, onto the porch and into the house with my mother in full pursuit. “Where do you think you’re going? Clean up that mess on the porch. Did you do your homework? Tom Filber, STOP RIGHT NOW!”

  I climb the steep steps to the second floor, guessing that she won’t chase me. She makes it up a few steps and slows, breathing hard.

  I reach the second floor and duck into the first door I come to. I pull it closed and lock it. Ah, the joy of a safe hiding place! I turn and see a plump girl with a glum expression sitting on a chair drawing a bow back and forth across a cello as if trying to saw it in half.

  “Greetings, sister,” I say. “I come in peace.”

  She lowers the bow and stares at me for a moment. “Who invited you in my room, metal mouth?”

  “No one,” I admit. “How lovely you play.”

  “What?”

  “The cello. How lovely you play the cello. Your approach, while lacking in any appreciable musical quality, is nonetheless characterized by impressive energy.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” She gets up and fumbles for something on her desk.

  “No, I have not lost it,” I tell her, “but it’s kind of you to ask.”

  She stares back at me suspiciously. “What’s up with you, geekhead? What are you trying to pull?”

  “I have not come to pull anything,” I assure her. “I will not pull your hair, or your ears, or even one of your little fingers.”

  “Are you threatening me?” She begins furiously rooting around in her desk, searching for something.

  “No, I would be in favor of a complete cessation of hostilities,” I tell her. “Let us live in harmony, like the moss and the lichen.”

  She’s found what she’s looking for. I see a black bag marked Rape Defense Kit. “I’ve got some harmony for you here, little brother,” she says. “This thing has ten thousand volts and it will fry your eyeballs.” She raises what I believe to be an electric cattle prod, switches it on, and walks toward me.