Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars

by Cory Putman Oakes

  Venetio, my grandfather, Mrs. Juarez, and I all looked at Sylvie.

  She shook her head.

  “Nope.”

  “Sylvie—” I began.

  “It’s not like they need me anyway,” she retorted. “There’s no way Mars is going to lose tomorrow. Tycho Brawn even came out of retirement to play!”

  “If that’s true,” my grandfather said, “then the BURPSers will have planned for that. Wouldn’t it make sense for them to have a backup, some sort of insurance, to make sure the game goes their way?”

  We all looked at Venetio, who spread his hands.

  “If they do, I haven’t heard about it. I’m just a sleeper cell, remember? It’s not like they told me everything.”

  “What about the vote?” I asked. “Does the vote matter at all?”

  “It matters,” Venetio assured me. “If the Martians vote to ban Pluto from the ISF, a lot of Plutonians will be upset. And a lot more of them might start listening to the BURPSers.”

  “So it sounds like we need to do two things,” my grandfather summed up. “We need to secure an uncontroversial Martian victory in the game tomorrow, and we need to get the Council to vote against the Plutonian ban.”

  “I have an idea about the vote,” I said. My inkling had grown leaps and bounds in the last hour.

  “And the game?” Venetio asked, giving Sylvie a hard look. “If she won’t play, then we’re going to have to make sure the Martians win some other way—a way that won’t cause riots.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Mrs. Juarez asked, looking at me.

  They were all looking at me.

  I sighed.

  “I have no idea.”

  • • •

  The room that Elliot and I shared was dark. There was just enough light coming in through the enormous windows for me to see a long lump stretched out on Elliot’s side of the bed.

  “Elliot,” I said without turning the lights on. “I really need to talk to you.”

  The lump was silent.

  “Look, I know we’re fighting. I know you’re mad. But you’re my best friend. And there’s a lot of stuff going on right now.”

  The lump did not respond.

  I sighed.

  “Please, Elliot. You don’t have to stop being mad at me. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. But will you listen to me? Just for a minute?”

  The lump still didn’t say anything. And now I was starting to get mad.

  “Elliot. Come on!”

  I flipped on the light.

  He wasn’t there. The lump was just a twisted mess of covers. But there was a folded-up piece of paper on my pillow. It said:

  I officially resign from your entourage.

  We, Who Are about to Dive…

  “Welcome to the 2016 Summit Friendship and Goodwill Game!”

  The deep, booming voice was at odds with the tiny-even-for-a-Martian Martian who sat behind the microphone. He was in a see-through booth that adjoined what Chancellor Fontana assured us was the largest private box in the arena.

  Even from behind the box’s thick glass window, I could hear the cheering outside. The stadium was packed. And from up here, the crowd looked like a red-and-blue splatter painting. There were no Home or Visitor sections. There couldn’t be, since all the Plutonians had to stay within ten meters of their Martian escorts.

  Every Plutonian except Venetio, that is. His wrist cuff had been deactivated that morning (by Chancellor Fontana). But nobody else knew that. Not even Sylvie, who sat glumly beside him in the seats closest to the window. My grandfather was there as well, sitting off to the side and sweating heavily underneath a large trench coat. His plates had grown larger overnight. The cure was wearing off even faster now. I had tried to convince him to stay home and take care of himself, but he had refused.

  The only person missing was Elliot. He hadn’t come back to the apartment that morning. Not knowing where he was felt like someone was punching me in the stomach. Repeatedly. But there was nothing I could do about him right now.

  I had a planet to save. Two, in fact. And Elliot had made it clear that he didn’t want any part of it.

  “Please give a big Martian welcome to your very own Red Razers!”

  The cheering outside intensified. I didn’t even have to look down to see the line of red-jerseyed Razers run onto the field behind Coach Kepler. I had a perfect view of them on the Jumbotron immediately across the stadium from the box.

  “And please welcome our distinguished visitors, the Kuiper Kickers from the dwarf planet of Pluto!”

  “Dwarf planet. I guess he couldn’t resist throwing that in,” Venetio said, groaning. Outside, a mixture of cheers and boos erupted through the crowd as a line of blue-jerseyed Plutonians trotted onto the field.

  Ms. Helen threw the announcer a miffed look. He shrugged and spread his hands in a What? gesture, then pointed to me.

  “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for…”

  Ms. Helen handed me a microphone, and Chancellor Fontana shoved me in front of a banner that read Nutri Nuggets: Proud Sponsor of the Red Razers. Fear the Red!

  Before I could protest that this was hardly proclaiming my neutrality, a Martian with a headset pointed a camera at me and suddenly my face appeared on the Jumbotron.

  “You know him as the Dinosaur Boy! Visiting us all the way from Earth, please welcome our newest summit chancellor, Sawyer Bronson!”

  There was a round of applause from outside, far less then for either of the two soccer teams. I couldn’t stop staring at my giant face on the screen. I looked like I was about to be sick.

  “Sawyer!” Ms. Helen hissed, then pointed frantically to a teleprompter, which was typing out words just underneath the camera lens.

  “Uh, welcome?” I said.

  It came out squeaky, so I cleared my throat and tried again.

  “Welcome!”

  Ms. Helen jumped behind the camera and smiled a grossly exaggerated ear-to-ear grin. I tried to copy her, but the part-dinosaur on the Jumbotron still looked pretty nauseous. I couldn’t help it. All fifty thousand people in the stadium were staring at me. The very thought made me want to spew my breakfast salad all over the camera lens.

  I tried to ignore my stomach and concentrate on the words Chancellor Fontana and Ms. Helen had written out for me that morning.

  “On behalf of the Martian Council, I’d like to welcome you to this very special Friendship and Goodwill Game. I see today not as a rivalry between two teams, but as a coming together of two extraordinary groups of people. I am confident that the friendship and camaraderie we have cultivated in the past weeks will remain alive and well, regardless of the outcome of today’s game. Or of today’s vote.”

  I squinted over to the other side of the box, where the twelve members of the Martian Council all sat together at a long table. With the exception of Chancellor Fontana, they had all come out of hiding just that morning. And most of them still looked a little shocked to be out and about.

  Ms. Helen started motioning for me to wrap it up.

  “So, let’s have a clean and fair match!” I finished, with a pointed look at Chancellor Fontana. It had been her job to “strongly advise” Coach Kepler to avoid any controversial plays. The Martian players didn’t know about the BURPSers’ plan, but they had wholeheartedly agreed to do what they could to avoid any rioting.

  One of the camera Martian’s assistants began to pull on a large crank. The front window opened, just enough for me to stick my arm out. I couldn’t even lean my head out to see what I was doing. Luckily, one of the outside cameras was still broadcasting me on the Jumbotron, so I was able to use that to see where the red button on the top of the game clock was.

  I pressed down on the button, and the clock gave a sharp click.

  “Let the gam
e begin!”

  • • •

  I’ve seen soccer games on TV before, and honestly, the Martian-Plutonian game wasn’t that much different.

  Aside from the fact that half of the players were blue and the other half had antennae.

  There was a lot of running back and forth. A lot of pushing and shoving, some of which was apparently legal and some not. The referees—one Martian, one Plutonian—gave out handfuls of cards for various violations. One time, the refs themselves nearly came to blows over whether a Martian player had intentionally tripped a Plutonian. The two coaches had to break them apart and each side donated a thirty-second time-out so that the refs could cool off enough to keep going.

  “The Martians are starting their attack again! It’s Jakosky, passing to Banerdt. Banerdt to Radha. Radha back to Jakosky, then over to Zubrin. Zubrin to Brawn for the shot…and it’s wide. Plutonian ball.”

  During the times when an attempt on goal did not appear to be imminent, the announcer filled the empty airtime by giving the crowd background on the players.

  “And wearing number forty-two for the Razers is Tycho Brawn. Who, of course, is famous for scoring the winning goal for the Martians in the ’14 Finals.”

  “That’s him?” I asked Sylvie, leaning toward the window as the outside camera broadcast a live shot of number forty-two trotting down the field. He was bald and bearded. And also quite tall for a Martian; he towered over every other player on the field.

  “Yup,” Sylvie said without enthusiasm.

  “Is there something weird about his nose?” I asked, squinting.

  “There was a botched gene-ing attempt a few years ago,” Sylvie told us. “Tycho’s nose turned into a beak. He had it removed. But the replacement didn’t really take. He wears a plastic nose now, but it looks a little bit weird. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “Forget the nose,” Venetio said, frowning down at the field. “Does anyone else think he looks sort of…tired?”

  Before either Sylvie or I could respond, the announcer’s voice boomed through the box again.

  “Tycho Brawn is probably Mars’s best hope for a goal today. Let’s hope he picks up the pace a little bit!”

  On the field, the bearded Martian giant stopped in mid-stride and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “Not just me then,” Venetio said.

  “That’s the great Tycho Brawn?” I asked, incredulous. I could feel my heart sinking. “That’s the guy we’re counting on to win it for the Martians?”

  “This is definitely not the lightning-fast Brawn we know and love! Come on, Martians. Let’s perk him up with a cheer! Fear the Red! Fear the Red! Fear the Red!”

  The Martians in the crowd picked up the chant. Tycho Brawn eventually got it together and rejoined the action, but he stilled looked like he was moving at about half the speed of the other players.

  I looked at Sylvie. She shrugged.

  “Maybe he’s conserving his energy for the second half?” she guessed, sounding doubtful.

  “Well, the good news is that the Plutonians aren’t looking much better,” Venetio pointed out, as one of the players in a blue jersey went to kick the ball, missed, and fell flat on his back in midfield. Muttering quietly under his breath, he added, “I never thought I’d be happy to say that.”

  “Sylvie,” I said urgently. “It’s not too late. Are you absolutely sure that you—”

  “I told you,” she said, her voice getting all growly. “I’m. Not. Playing.”

  I opened my mouth to argue with her, but I was interrupted when Mrs. Juarez walked into the box holding a large, covered tray.

  “Food’s here!” she announced gaily.

  Sudden Death(s)

  To the twelve members of the Martian Council (most of whom had been surviving for some time on whatever Nutri Nuggets they could get smuggled to them while in hiding), the smell coming from Mrs. Juarez’s tray was irresistible. Some of them were openly salivating. Which was exactly what I had been counting on.

  Still, they all had suspicious looks on their faces. None of them made a move to open the steaming foil cylinders that had been placed in front of them.

  I stepped up to the table.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I know that the threat of gene-ing is on all of our minds. That’s why I had this food prepared especially for us by a celebrity chef from a neutral planet. I believe Gloria Juarez requires no introduction.”

  There were murmurs of recognition from around the table. Apparently, Mama Juarez’s Mexican-Martian fusion restaurants were as well-known in Mars as Sylvie had claimed.

  “Chef Juarez, what exactly have you prepared for us?” asked the elderly Martian at the head of the table as he cautiously unwrapped his foil package. He didn’t touch anything inside; he just squinted at it. Even though I could have sworn I saw him lick his lips.

  “These are an Earth delicacy called tacos,” Mrs. Juarez explained, handing me one as well. “Today I have prepared a breakfast variety for you called migas: a mixture of scrambled eggs, onions, peppers, and tortilla chips, all covered in a melted cheese sauce and wrapped in a flour tortilla. They’re very popular in the Tex-Mex cooking tradition.”

  “Mmmm,” I said, unwrapping one end of my taco and taking a healthy bite. It really was good. Not exactly on the regular stegosaurus menu, but still tasty. Mrs. Juarez had somehow even managed to find real Earth chicken eggs.

  Not that I wouldn’t have choked down a Bruno egg to make my point. But I was glad I didn’t have to.

  Emboldened by my example, several of the council members took experimental nibbles of their own tacos. Chancellor Fontana took an enormous bite, wiped a drip of sauce off her chin, and grinned.

  “It’s delicious!” she exclaimed, prompting the remaining holdouts (even the old guy) to tear into their tacos as well.

  Mrs. Juarez winked at me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Then a heart-stoppingly loud gong sound shook the entire box. Outside, there was a burst of orangey-yellow fire as four walls of flame rose up along the perimeter of the field.

  The announcer hurriedly swallowed his bite of taco.

  “The first sudden death period has begun! ”

  • • •

  What Sylvie had said about knowing you were in sudden death was starting to make sense. It wasn’t just the edges of the field that were on fire; the ball was on fire as well.

  And so was Tycho Brawn. Metaphorically speaking anyway.

  The burly Martian came alive at the sound of the gong. Suddenly he was everywhere at once, tearing around the field so fast he made all the other players look like they were moving in slow motion.

  “Finally!” the announcer was shrieking as Brawn charged down the field, kicking the flaming ball ahead of him and heading straight for the Plutonian goal. “Tycho Brawn has come back to life! He can win it for the Martians right now!”

  “No!” Venetio shouted. He and Sylvie both leaped to their feet. “If the Martians win in sudden death—”

  I turned and put a finger to my lips, nodding toward the twelve munching members of the council behind me. Venetio shut up, but we all held our breath as Tycho Brawn easily dodged a Plutonian defender and then launched a lightning-fast shot at the goal.

  The Plutonian goalie caught the ball, but barely, just as the fire sputtered out around the field and the first sudden death period came to an end.

  There was a collective groan from the Martians in the stands and matching disappointed sounds from the twelve Martians sitting around the table. All of which covered up the four frantic sighs of relief that came from me, Sylvie, Venetio, and Mrs. Juarez.

  There was also a painful-sounding grunt from my grandfather, who was still huddled beneath his coat in the corner, an untouched taco beside him.

  • • •

  “Injury time-out!�
�� the announcer said, his mouth full of taco. “It looks as though Stern—the Plutonian goalie—is on fire! Repeat: Stern is on fire!”

  On the field, a knot of blue-jerseyed players surrounded the Plutonian goalie, who was rolling around on the grass, trying to put himself out.

  With a worried look at the lump in the corner that was my grandfather, I sat down beside Sylvie and Venetio. They were already in deep, whispered conversation.

  “Chancellor Fontana warned the Martian team not to do anything controversial,” Venetio pointed out. “Why would Tycho Brawn only start to play hard during sudden death?”

  Sylvie shook her head.

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s exactly what the BURPSers would want him to do,” Venetio pointed out. “He must be working for them.”

  “But he’s a Martian hero,” I reminded him. “He wouldn’t do that. Would he, Sylvie?”

  Sylvie was staring out of the window.

  “Sylvie?” I repeated.

  “He took a dive,” she muttered, so quietly I could barely hear her.

  “What?” Venetio asked, moving his ear closer.

  “He dove, OK?” she said in a loud, furious whisper. “In the ’14 Finals. He didn’t get fouled. He faked it.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked, as my brain struggled to figure out how this applied to our current situation.

  “Yes. Coach Kepler told him to fake a foul so we’d get penalty kicks and win the game.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Because Kepler asked me to dive first, and I wouldn’t do it. So he asked Tycho instead.”

  “And do you think he’s doing it again now?” I asked. “Only trying to score during sudden death to cause a riot for the BURPSers? Why would he do that? He’s a Martian! He loves Mars!”

  “Tycho loves money,” Sylvie growled. “After the ’14 Finals, the Martian Council paid him. Very well. If the BURPSers offered him money to throw the game their way, I’ll bet he took it.”

  “He’s their insurance policy,” Venetio muttered. “Your grandfather was right. The BURPSers are going to make sure this game goes their way.”