The EngiNerds Strike Back

by Jarrett Lerner

  “HUMAN. YOU HAVE MISPLACED YOUR CANINE?”

  It’s impossible to tell from his tone of voice just what he’s up to.

  Is he testing me?

  Toying with me?

  Just making me squirm a bit before he zap-cannons me into a pile of Kennedy-colored dust?

  “ALSO,” Kermin asks, evidently having only now noticed the robot behind me, “WHAT IS THE IDENTITY OF THIS SHINY BEING?”

  Before I can answer, Björn steps forward and says, “Greee-TINGS. I am BJÖöööÖöÖÖöÖöÖRRrrrrRrRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—”

  Edsley delivers a few firm slaps to the bot’s back. But it’s not shutting him up like it did back on my lawn.

  “—rrrrrrrRrRrrrRRRrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR—”

  Edsley slaps again.

  And again.

  But it only makes things worse.

  “—RrrnNnNnNnnnNNNNNNööööÖRrrrrrrnJBbBbJbÖÖÖÖÖöö—”

  Dan slides his screwdriver out of his pocket and heads for the bot.

  Just as, out of the corner of my eye, I see Muckle take a step forward.

  “DISPERSE, HUMANS,” he shouts over the malfunctioning robot. “I SHALL SILENCE THIS SHINY AND IRRITATING BEING ONCE AND FOR ALL.”

  The alien lifts his zap-cannon and aims it right at Björn—our one and only hope of saving the planet.

  59.

  “WAIT!”

  It’s what I’m thinking.

  But it’s not me who shouts it.

  It is, improbably, Kermin who, in the nick of time, stops his associate from turning our bot into a pile of shiny dust.

  Muckle lowers his zap-cannon and turns to Kermin.

  And Kermin points up at the sky.

  We all look.

  Even Björn—who, thankfully, has all of a sudden shut up.

  And what do we see up there in the sky?

  A cumulonimbus cloud, sinking toward us.

  “Bem,” says Dan.

  Kermin’s gaze snaps back down.

  So does Muckle’s.

  The aliens both glare at Dan.

  “Bempulthorpemckrackleflackin?” Kermin says. “How do you know Bempulthorpemckrackleflackin?”

  Muckle narrows his eyes. Then he aims them back up at the spaceship.

  “Oh, that protocol-breaking Plerpian is in a far from insignificant amount of trouble.…”

  60.

  IN THE FORTY OR SO seconds it takes for Bem’s cloud-covered spaceship to lower down and land on Feldman’s Field, I feel just about every emotion imaginable.

  Relief.

  Fear.

  Eagerness.

  Fear.

  Confusion.

  Fear.

  Anger.

  Fear.

  Sadness.

  Fear.

  Yeah, I guess there’s a lot of fear in there.

  And a lot of that has to do with not knowing what Muckle means by “trouble,” and also just how much a “far from insignificant amount” is to him.

  But we’re about to find out.…

  Seconds after Bem’s ship settles onto the field, before the cloud even fully parts to reveal a door, the ramp pokes out and reaches for the ground. And then Bem comes hurrying down it, racing across the field toward all of us.

  As soon as he arrives, Muckle jabs an angry finger toward him and says…

  Well, I actually don’t know what he says, because he says it in whatever language is spoken on Plerp-5. To me, it sounds like someone trying to beatbox through a mouthful of cottage cheese. But Muckle’s enraged expression, and the finger he keeps wagging in Bem’s face, tells me all I need to know about what’s going on.

  Bem waits for Muckle to finish berating him.

  Then he responds—in English, for our benefit.

  He says, “But we were wrong. The humans—they’re not all stupid and selfish and careless and destructive. Some of them are good. And some of them are doing good. I have been watching these particular Earthlings for several weeks now. They are brilliant, highly imaginative beings. They may prove assets to our planet, and to our galaxy as a whole.”

  With that, he turns to us.

  And just loud enough for Dan, Mikaela, John Henry Knox, Jerry, and Edsley to hear, I say:

  “Showtime.”

  61.

  I STEP FORWARD.

  “This,” I tell Kermin and Muckle in my best science fair presentation voice, “is Björn.”

  The robot’s eyes flash in recognition of its name.

  “Greee-TINGS,” he says. “I am—”

  Edsley claps the thing on the back before it can say its name—and keep on saying it—yet again.

  Mikaela steps up next.

  “Björn, of course, is a robot,” she says. “A robot designed and built by none other than our friend Dan here.”

  Dan, shy and humble as ever, gives nothing more than a little nod of acknowledgment.

  Kermin and Muckle, meanwhile, are now giving the robot a closer look. It’s hard to tell, but it seems like they might be appreciating the thing a bit more now that they know it was a human kid who created it.

  And now here it is…

  The moment of truth.

  John Henry Knox takes the lead.

  “As you are no doubt aware,” he tells the aliens, “our planet’s climate has been changing relatively rapidly and rather dramatically, especially over the course of the past several decades. We”—John Henry Knox sweeps his arm out to indicate me and Dan and Mikaela and Jerry and Edsley—“understand that our species has been contributing to this change, and that the results have been, well, somewhere between calamitous and catastrophic.”

  Kermin eyes John Henry Knox.

  “You,” he asks, “understand all of that?”

  And the way he says it, it’s not like he’s in disbelief. It’s like he’s seriously curious. Like, to use his own words, he’s once again considering that we’re maybe not as stupid and useless as we seem to be—and, what’s more, that we might even be somewhat smart and useful. Which might be why he’s stopped speaking so slowly and shouting at us in our own language.

  Jerry’s the one who finally answers the alien’s question.

  “We do,” he says. “And that’s why we’ve programmed Björn here to do what he does.”

  Now it’s Muckle who seems curious.

  “Which is…?” he asks.

  Dan clears his throat.

  “Björn,” he commands. “Enter Analysis-Prescription Mode.”

  “EN-terrr-ING AH-nall-is-is preee-SCRIP-CHUN mooode,” says Björn, his eyes blinking with a brand-new rhythm.

  “Now, Björn,” Dan says. “This old, overgrown field has sat here, neglected and unused, for many years. Is there anything we could do with it? Anything that might, perhaps, benefit both our immediate community and the planet at large?”

  The bot’s eyes go dark…

  … then light up again like never before. He sweeps his head back and forth, taking in each and every square foot of the field, his bright eyes illuminating the tips of the tall grass and weeds growing here and there. Then Björn crouches down and sinks the sharp tips of his fingers into the ground. Scooping up a clump of the field’s dry earth, he opens the door to his stomach and tosses the stuff in. A moment later, a faint whirring sound can be heard from within the bot, followed by a CLUNK and a couple of CLANKs.

  I wince, hoping everything’s running smoothly in there. A single loose gear or busted spring could mean our doom.

  Finally, the whirring stops.

  And Björn’s eyes once again go dark.

  I hold my breath as the seconds pass.

  And pass.

  And keep on passing.

  Until, at last, the bot’s eyes light up once more.

  And he says:

  “FER-till-iiize the SOY-ull. PLANT veg-et-ab-ulls IN the north-EAST quad-RANT of THE fiiield.” Björn points to the part of the field he means, just in case anyone doesn’t have a handle on their directio
ns. “LET-tuce, egg-PLANT, cu-CUM-berrr, and SQUASH have a HIGH prob-ub-il-uh-teee of grow-ING welll. A RAIN-wat-errr CO-lec-tion SYS-tem will AID with PLANTS and re-DUCE water waste. Shall I PRINT con-STRUC-tion plaaans?”

  “Please do,” answers Dan.

  Björn turns around, and a small panel in the upside-down trapezoid that is the robot’s pelvis slides aside. And even though I know the guy doesn’t have any food-cubes inside of him, I can’t help but worry, for a fraction of a second, that a turd missile is going to come firing out of the bot’s backside like I’ve seen so many times before. But it’s a small square of paper that emerges instead.

  Dan grabs the thing before it falls to the ground, then hands it to the aliens.

  Kermin accepts it and holds it up so Muckle can see too.

  “ ‘Plans for Rainwater Collection System,’ ” Muckle reads. “Impressive.”

  Kermin looks up at us and agrees.

  “Highly impressive,” he says.

  62.

  WE SPEND THE NEXT FIFTEEN minutes showing Kermin and Muckle all the other stuff Björn can do.

  Like how you can ask him for directions to anywhere in the world, and how he’ll not only give you them, but will tell you the most efficient, environmentally friendly way for you to get where you want to go.

  Or how you can give him just about any object—a paper clip, a rubber band, an old shoelace—and he can list dozens of ways that you can repurpose the thing.

  Finally, we’re done.

  Well, almost.

  Last of all, once Dan and Mikaela and Jerry and John Henry Knox and I are done showing the aliens everything we programmed the bot to do, Edsley steps up beside Björn.

  “And,” he says, kicking up a foot and perching his elbow on the robot’s shoulder, “he knows more than 260 bean-based recipes.”

  Both Kermin and Muckle’s eyes widen. They look at each other meaningfully, then gaze again at Björn.

  That’s when Bem speaks up.

  “Protocol #10,643,” he says.

  All of us turn to him, Plerpian demolition crew included.

  That’s when Bem slips a small, greenish-gray book out of his pocket. And even though I can’t decipher the symbols on the cover, I know it must be a copy of the eleventh edition of the Plerpian Protocols for Planetary Demolition.

  “Protocol #10,643,” Bem repeats. Then, tapping the cover of the tiny book, he begins to recite the protocol. “ ‘If, in the course of planetary demolition, new information is uncovered—information that may reveal that the conclusions that said demolition is predicated upon are inaccurate—it is the duty of the demolition crew to—’ ”

  That’s as far as Bem gets. Because that’s when Kermin and Muckle take over, reciting the rest of the protocol together:

  “ ‘—cease demolishing and report information to Planetary Leadership for analysis and consideration.’ ”

  Then, on his own, Kermin says, “It does seem possible that our Planetary Leadership reached inaccurate conclusions about your species. A possibility, I might add, that I considered once previously, specifically after learning of the majesty of the pupperoni and the human worship of them.”

  Hearing this, my fear begins to slip away. Because this is good. It sounds to me like we actually pulled this off.

  But then I turn to Muckle, and see that he doesn’t look quite as convinced as his associate. Even worse, he keeps adjusting his grip on his zap-cannon, like he’s eager to use it.

  The fear all rushes back.

  I hold my breath.

  “It will take us several days to travel back to Plerp-5…,” Muckle says. “And we are unable to receive broadcasts of The Bean Show while traveling at warp speed.…”

  Kermin frowns.

  “This is a fact,” he says. “An unfortunate fact.”

  “There is also much paperwork to be filled out if we claim Protocol #10,643…,” Muckle goes on. “Continuing with our methodical demolition of your planet requires no paperwork.…”

  “Yuck,” Kermin says. “Paperwork.”

  “Recall, Kermin, that particularly pernicious paper cut you obtained last time we were forced to complete paperwork?”

  A shiver runs through Kermin’s body.

  “For several days,” he says, “I could not sanitize my hands without suffering substantial irritation.”

  Oh my God.

  Is this what it’s all going to come down to?

  Paperwork?!

  I slide my eyes over to Bem, hoping there’s some other protocol he can cite, or at least something he can say to convince Kermin and Muckle that doing a little paperwork and missing a few episodes of The Bean Show might be preferable to methodically obliterating a planet and its nearly eight billion inhabitants. But the young alien looks just as nervous and unsure as I am.

  At last, Kermin sighs.

  “Mucklemcdunk?” he says. “I believe we should comply with Protocol #10,643.” He winces. “And I will agree to complete the associated paperwork, even at the risk of sustaining additional paper cuts.”

  An endless second drags by…

  … before Muckle loosens his grip on his zap-cannon and says, “Fine.”

  The breath I’d been holding comes bursting out of me.

  “As protocol requires,” Muckle says, “we shall return to Plerp-5 and inform our Planetary Leadership of the fully functioning brains of the young human beings we encountered.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  Muckle acknowledges me with a nod, then turns to Björn. “We will also speak to our Planetary Leadership of your shiny, rather useful creation.”

  “Or…,” says Dan, “… you could just take him with you.”

  “You have additional Björns?” Muckle asks.

  “We don’t,” Dan says. “But we can build another one.”

  “And if we had more than half a day,” says Mikaela, “probably an even better one.”

  Dan nods.

  Then adds, “I also think I could use a little break from robots. Like, for a few days, at least.”

  “If you insist,” Muckle says.

  He turns to Bem next.

  “You have proven yourself very wise, young Plerpian, and have potentially prevented us from making a rather large—and quite unalterable—mistake. I will make sure your parental units are aware of these facts should they desire to take them into consideration when choosing how long to ground you for your breaking protocol so flagrantly.”

  Bem tsks his tongue.

  “Man,” he says.

  At last, Muckle turns to Kermin, and the aliens share another meaningful look. It’s like there’s something else, something they’ve been holding back but have been wanting to bring up all this time.

  It’s Kermin who finally says, “Might we now discuss what we originally came down here to discuss?”

  Oh.

  Right.

  The fact that I completely lied to them about speaking Dog and there being some big important dog meeting this morning.

  “Yeah,” I say. “About that. I’m sorry I—”

  But that’s as far as I get.

  Because that’s when Kermin, now grinning hopefully, says, “Might we attend?”

  I stare at him.

  “Attend?” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “The meeting. The gathering of the pupperonis. That is why we have returned so many hours before noon. And that is why we are here, at the one and only Feldman’s Field.”

  I go on staring at the alien, not knowing what to do, wondering if it’s better or worse that he still hasn’t realized that I lied to him, and wondering, too, if he might be so upset to learn it now that he’ll go back on all of what he just said and turn the planet into a bunch of dust after all.

  Kermin’s grin suddenly disappears, faster than if it got zapped by his zap-cannon.

  “Oh dear,” he says. “Have we missed it? Has the canine conference already occurred?”

&nb
sp; “Um,” I say. “Uhh. Well. You see. I—I, ah—”

  I cock my head to the side.

  Did I really hear what I think I just heard, or was that wishful thinking?

  But there it is again.

  Faint.

  But growing louder.

  And louder.

  And louder still.

  RARF!

  Rarf-rarf-rarf!

  Ruff-ruff-ruff-ruff RARF!

  Kermin gasps.

  His grin grows even bigger.

  “Is it—” he asks. “Is that—”

  But he’s too excited to even get the rest of the words out.

  And there’s no need for him to, anyway.

  Seconds later, his question is answered.

  RARF!

  RARF-RUFF-RARF!

  RUFF-RUFF-RUFF-RUFF RARF-RARF-

  RARF!

  A pack of dogs comes tearing around the corner and charging out onto the field.

  And who’s in front, leading them all? Kitty.

  How?

  I don’t have a clue.

  But I’m too grateful to see him to even care.

  The dogs chase one another around in great big looping circles all across the field, barking at and with and over one another. They’re having the time of their lives.

  So is Kermin.

  He looks as delighted as a creature—human, Plerpian, or whatever—can be.

  Eventually, he manages to tear his eyes off the dogs long enough to look at me again.

  “What are they saying?” he asks me, his voice a whisper, as if he might somehow interrupt the very important dog business occurring on the other side of the field.

  I tip my ear toward the dogs, like I’m concentrating hard on their RARFs.

  Then I tell Kermin, “They’re asking you to join them.”

  The alien’s mouth falls open. But no words come out. He’s too overwhelmed to speak.

  Finally, he lifts a finger, aims it at his chest, raises his eyebrows inquiringly.

  I pretend to listen to the dogs again. “Yep,” I tell the alien. “You.”

  And that’s all the alien needs. He shoves his zap-cannon into Muckle’s hand and hurries out to meet the dogs, his tie flying over his shoulder like a bright, striped flag. He runs and jumps and laughs and screams, and even lets out a few RARFs of his own.