Project X-Calibur

by Greg Pace

  The kid was looking at me with wide, hopeful eyes, waiting for my answer. I took a deep breath. The cold wind felt like daggers, but I didn’t mind. I needed the jolt to say what I was about to say.

  “Okay. I’m in.”

  5

  138:54:37

  “YES, OF COURSE. I’m so proud of him, thank you,” my mother gushed into the phone, “but if you don’t mind my asking—why such short notice?”

  I stood a few feet away, leaning against our kitchen counter. Mom was in her waitress uniform and had already worked a morning and afternoon shift. Today was her day to work a split, but she’d be home for another hour.

  “Oh, you did?” She covered the bottom half of the phone. “Where’s the mail from yesterday?” she whispered.

  I rushed into the foyer to a cluttered table. I grabbed the stack of envelopes, then bolted back and handed it to her. Her eyes widened when she found what she was looking for.

  “You know what,” she said into the phone, her cheeks turning red, “I’m sorry, it did come. Sometimes it takes me a few days to get around to—”

  She stopped talking. I moved closer to get a look. The envelope had a fancy crest on it and said THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF SCIENCE. I could hear the guy talking to Mom on the other end of the line now. He had a deep voice and a British accent.

  “I appreciate that, yes,” Mom was saying. “I’m sure Ben will be thrilled. Again, thank you. Good day to you, too.” Then she hung up.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about placing first in your school science fair?” she said, hands on her hips.

  Uh . . .

  “I guess I forgot.”

  She tore into the envelope. “The man on the phone said it was some kind of worldwide science fair. Did your science teacher know that?”

  Uh . . .

  “He might have mentioned it,” I lied. The kid had made me promise at least three times that I would play along. Billions of lives are at stake, he had cautioned.

  “The winners are being flown to London, all expenses paid, to participate in a weeklong convention. You really knew nothing about this, Ben?” Hands on her hips again. Not a good sign. She was irked.

  “Well . . . I knew something about it, but I couldn’t be sure it was real, so . . . I didn’t mention it.”

  Not entirely a lie that time, I convinced myself.

  “It’s definitely real,” she insisted. She pulled out the envelope’s contents. “In fact, he said a car is on its way here right now to take you to the airport . . .” She trailed off and stared wide-eyed at the paper in her hands.

  “What is it?” I asked, and she handed it to me without a word. I leaned against the kitchen counter again—otherwise I might have passed out right there on the faded yellow linoleum.

  It was a check made out to me, Benjamin Stone, for TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.

  “But . . . what . . . how . . . ” I stammered. My shock quickly gave way to exhilarating visions of me running into the nearest electronics store and buying the biggest TV they had, then driving it home in a new sports car that would make Todd’s precious pickup truck look like it belonged atop a trash heap.

  Mom hungrily examined the rest of the envelope.

  “It’s your prize,” she read. “According to this, it’s meant to start a college fund for you.”

  Oh. Good-bye, mega-TV and sports car, you were nice while you lasted.

  “Who exactly did you talk to just now?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Something Pellinore. I wasn’t prepared for that accent of his. I figured it was just someone playing a prank at first. His first name was something with a P,” Mom said. “Yes. Peter Pellinore.”

  The name sounded familiar.

  “Oh my!” Mom suddenly cried, giving me a jolt. “I have to pack you a bag!” She raced out of the kitchen. A split second later I heard stomping around upstairs.

  “I guess that means I can go,” I said to the empty kitchen.

  I went upstairs to find Mom dashing back and forth between my room and the hallway closet. In her hand she held Dad’s old duffel bag from work.

  “I’ve got socks, underwear, extra jeans, a few shirts,” Mom rattled off as she whizzed past me. “Just make sure you unpack as soon as you get there so the clothes aren’t wrinkled. I don’t want you looking like you live in a gutter.”

  “Sure thing, Mom—”

  “Oh, and you’ll need a jacket. I think it gets cold in England.” She looked up as if pulling thoughts out of the ceiling. “And it rains! Oh no, do you know where the umbrella is?!”

  She was seriously losing it.

  I rolled my eyes. “They’ll probably have umbrellas there, don’t you think?”

  She stopped to bite at her lower lip, nodded quickly, and said, “Maybe you’re right.” She whirled away again, disappearing into the bathroom.

  I looked to my right and saw that the door to Mom and Dad’s bedroom was open. Since Mom usually slept on the couch downstairs now, the master bedroom had become something of a museum. I stepped inside and picked up a framed photo of me, Mom, and Dad. It was taken a couple of years ago on Dad’s birthday, when we took him out to dinner at his favorite steakhouse. The three of us had never looked happier. Would we have smiled like that if we had known what the future had in store for us?

  Mom stood in the doorway, holding the duffel bag all zipped up and ready to go. “Can I take this picture with me?” I asked softly.

  She swallowed a lump in her throat just as a car horn honked outside. As we rushed downstairs, I stuffed the framed picture into the duffel bag.

  When we reached the landing, her eyes turned glassy. “Call me every night before bed, and in the morning, too, when you wake up. And maybe also at lunch. Call the diner if I’m not home. You have the number, right?”

  “Yes, Mom. I’ve called it a million times,” I groaned. As I hugged her fiercely, I took in the sight of our tiny den. It wasn’t much to look at, but there were a ton of memories in that room. Am I insane to be leaving like this? If the end of mankind is just six days away, am I making a mistake by not spending these final days with Mom?

  Two more quick honks came from outside.

  Mom and I turned to the front door. “That Pellinore said the driver would see to it that you got on the plane safely. And he said someone would be waiting for you when you land in London, too,” Mom said a little breathlessly.

  I nodded, afraid that if I spoke, she would hear how nervous I was. This was really happening. I was about to leave home for the first time in my entire life.

  “Maybe I should come to the airport with you—” Mom began, but I shook my head.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom, I swear.”

  She gave me an almost helpless look, then grabbed me again for another hug.

  “This is all so sudden,” she said as she held me tight, her voice shaky.

  Tell me about it.

  She released me, so I grabbed my duffel and opened the screen door, making my way outside before she could protest. I had already rushed to the limo by the time she stepped outside and onto the porch.

  I yanked open the limo’s side door, threw my bag onto the back passenger seat, then looked to the front to see the little kid sitting behind the wheel. He was sitting on a stack of books, to be able to see over the dashboard.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” I hissed.

  “Get in.” He motioned urgently. “Fast.”

  I jumped into the limo and rolled my window down to wave good-bye to Mom before turning back to him. “Are you sure you can drive?”

  “Belt up. Safety first!” he said cheerfully.

  As we drove off, I turned and looked through the back window at Mom, still rooted to our porch. And then, as we turned a corner, she was gone.

  I su
spected that the life I had always known was gone, too, for better or worse.

  6

  137:46:02

  THE SOUNDS of the city exploded in my eardrums.

  “Welcome to London,” the kid said, letting go of my hand. Teleporting was getting easier to handle, but I still swayed as I fought off the dizziness.

  We were standing in the mouth of an alley, looking out onto a grim gray sky and a cramped London street. Cars crawled down two narrow lanes as they passed us; a black cab stopped suddenly for a businessman in a long coat. Behind them, skinny brick houses stood squished together, their tightly packed storefronts advertising everything from souvenirs to fish-and-chips to discounted night tours through haunted London (“For a Jolly Good Fright!”). People were everywhere, talking in British accents. My hand tightened around the handles of Dad’s duffel bag. When everyone around you suddenly sounds nothing like you do, it’s a little weird.

  “Follow me,” the kid instructed. “We’re already late.”

  Buildings crowded in on either side of us, the bricks stained and cracked, the ground littered with garbage. There was an angry hiss as I sidestepped a street cat foraging for food.

  “Here we are.” The kid sighed happily as we arrived at a battered door covered in graffiti.

  “This is the Royal Academy of Science? Not very royal-looking.”

  “That was just a ruse for the parents. This is Headquarters.” The kid looked left and right (as if anyone else would want to come down this stink-hole alley) and pressed a finger against a nearby brick. A perfect line of small light beams shot out from the doorway, concealing us behind projections of shimmering brick walls.

  “A hologram or something?” I croaked. “I thought that kind of stuff was only in movies.”

  The kid rolled his eyes. Another brick next to the door spun around to reveal an electronic scanner.

  “This is a dental scanner,” he explained. “An intruder would need all my teeth, in formation no less, to gain access. The walls have been fortified against teleportation, in case anyone managed to get their hands on this.” He flashed the device in his palm.

  He bent down and put his mouth to the scanner, grinning like someone was taking his picture. A red ray of light panned from right to left, and with a quick beep-beep the light turned green. “Hold on,” he warned.

  I shot him a wary glance. “For wha—”

  We suddenly plummeted downward, our feet somehow glued to the square slab under us as we plunged deep below ground. We jolted sideways through a dark tunnel before ascending again—all in less than two seconds—and then we lurched to a stop.

  I wobbled, trying hopelessly to catch my balance. I could feel a pull from beneath me, and a tingling throughout my feet and legs that somehow held me in place.

  The kid smiled. “The metal is magnetized to bond with the mercury in human blood. Very revolutionary.” He gave a satisfied nod.

  There was a beep, and suddenly the pull was gone. He and I stepped away, and the slab whisked back down into the darkness. I gulped at the sight before me. We had arrived in the center of a huge, circular room lined with doors. The walls—solid steel, reinforced with millions of bolts all arranged in crisscross “X”s—were maybe fifty feet high, and the floor, made up of marble tiles, was so shiny it looked wet.

  On the ground, people carrying clipboards scuttled hurriedly from door to door. Their lab coats all had three letters stitched over the chest pockets: “RTR.” From what I could overhear, most had English accents, and nobody was anywhere near my age, but they didn’t seem surprised at all to see us here.

  I looked up. There were three levels of doors, some twenty and thirty feet up, but with no stairs anywhere. On the ceiling, huge red numbers were counting down, like a giant digital timer: 137 hours, 32 minutes, 12 seconds . . . 11 seconds . . . 10 seconds . . .

  I nudged the kid. “What is that?”

  “The time left until the aliens arrive,” he said.

  I tensed. A hundred and thirty-seven hours didn’t seem like much when it could mean the end of the world. A pretty woman walked by, her hair up in a neat bun. On her way past us, she gave the kid a warm smile. “Good to have you back, sir.”

  A grown woman, calling an eight-year-old “sir.”

  He shook her hand. “Fabulous to be back,” he said brightly. “Where are the trainees?”

  “Medical.” She gave me a nod as she passed, but I was more interested in her clipboard. At first it looked pretty standard, until I realized the single piece of paper on it was a paper-thin computer screen. And I mean paper thin. Two words at the top of the screen sent my pulse racing: PROJECT X-CALIBUR.

  The kid led me across the lobby to a spot just in front of the doors. “Stay close,” he instructed, and the floor panel we were standing on suddenly rose up. That’s how the people here got to the second and third levels of doors.

  Problem was, I was so caught off guard that I windmilled and dropped my duffel bag. It toppled over the side, landed on another floor panel, and triggered it to also rise up. The bag kept rolling, only to hit another floor panel—up and down, in a circle, all around the atrium, until it finally came to a rest.

  Tell me this isn’t happening.

  From where I stood at the third-level doors, I could see the workers below startled by the sudden chaos. One poor guy hung on the edge of a rising column, legs flailing, before finally pulling himself up to safety. They all turned to glare up at me.

  “Sorry,” I winced with an apologetic little wave. I turned to the kid. “Haven’t you ever heard of regular elevators?” I hissed.

  He shrugged. “Live and learn.” He pushed open the door in front of us.

  I looked in and saw an Asian kid with spiky hair. He stood shirtless, his legs bent and his arms out as he swayed side to side. Was he surfing? But there was no board, or much of anything else, around him except for a few chairs and a couple of white curtain dividers.

  I hesitated. This place was a little nuts.

  “There are only friends here, Benjamin. No enemies,” the kid who brought me here coaxed.

  I took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

  “See you soon!” Suddenly, the kid was gone, and the door was replaced by wall.

  When the Asian kid saw me, he stopped “surfing” and jogged over.

  “What up? I’m Kwan!” He looked my age, lean, but not skinny, and really tan. He was about my height, but he was definitely more athletic than me.

  “You don’t have an accent,” I noted.

  “I’m Korean American. Emphasis on American.” He stood tall, chest out.

  “No, I mean you don’t have an English accent.”

  “So what’s your name?” The words came rapid-fire. This kid had energy to spare.

  “Ben. Ben Stone.” I held out a hand, and Kwan shook it with both of his.

  “Where ya from, Ben Stone?”

  “Texas—” I barely answered before Kwan shouted over his shoulder. “Hey, Big Guy, another American! Texas this time!”

  Another kid stepped out from behind one of the white curtains. He was also my age, with a puffy baby face and a buzz cut, but he was at least a foot taller than me and Kwan, and big. Not muscular, just bulky, like a hairless bear.

  “Tyler’s from Florida,” Kwan chirped. “Check this out—he wrestles gators.”

  “And crocs. Don’t forget the crocs,” Tyler said with a calm smile. Even though he was a foot taller than me, his presence was somehow less in-your-face than Kwan’s.

  “But no croc or gator is a match for you, right?” Kwan slapped Tyler on the back. Hard. He had guts, that’s for sure.

  Tyler paid him little mind. “The tourists pay to see me win,” he shrugged. “I give them what they want.”

  “What’s your deal, anyway?” Kwan asked me.

  I was lost. “My
deal?”

  “Yeah. What do you do? Like, I’ve won more surfing championships than anybody else on the planet under eighteen years old. I’ve been on the cover of Sports Illustrated Kids twice. And you already know what he does.” He nodded toward Tyler. “Ten million hits on YouTube!”

  Kwan snapped his fingers on both hands and pointed at me. “So what do you do again?”

  “Well, I go to school,” I fidgeted. “And I work on cars sometimes.”

  They stared back at me.

  “Mostly oil changes. I charge fifteen to twenty dollars, depending on the car.” I was kinda proud of that last part.

  “So you race the cars?” Kwan prodded.

  “No. I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Hmm,” Kwan managed. Tyler frowned like someone had just farted.

  “Benjamin?” Another door appeared at the other end of the room, and a middle-aged woman in a white lab coat stuck her head in. She looked dignified and well put together, but her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was puckered up like she had tasted something sour. “Are you ready for your physical?” she asked, and I realized that her puckered expression had nothing to do with me; she looked like that all the time.

  I nervously glanced at Kwan. He grinned. “Don’t sweat it, Earnhardt. We already did it. Piece of cake.”

  “Earnhardt? I told you—I don’t race cars.”

  Kwan’s grin just got bigger. “Whatever.”

  Sourpuss handed me gray shorts and a matching tank top with RTR printed on the front. “Put these on and meet me inside,” she instructed.

  After changing behind the white curtains, I left Kwan and Tyler and walked into the next room. It was much larger than the changing area, and everything was steel and glass. In the back corner, another kid my age was running on a treadmill. While he wore the same gray shorts and tank top as me, he was four or five inches taller and looked like a quarterback or something. He had a wide jaw, and his hair was cut short and neat.

  Kwan was a champion surfer, Tyler was apparently a Florida tourist attraction and internet sensation, and this kid looked like he would grow up to be a movie hero. What the heck was I doing here?