Crash Landing

by Scott Seegert

  And now on to my first destination-the planetoid Zurton. There I shall finally retrieve the all-powerful Zorb and use it to rule the universe! Only two short months ago I had that gleaming globe mere inches from my grasp, only to be foiled by Klosmo’s kid and his misfit friends.

  And there’s the planetoid now!

  The Zorb should be just over that ridge. I can practically feel its power running through my veins… er… cotton stuffing already. Let’s see… what should I conquer first? The space station? Earth, perhaps? Maybe an entire solar system! There are so many evil choices!

  What is this?! It’s gone! Zarfloots, ZARFLOOTS, ZARFLOOTS!! This can only be the work of Klosmo! I remember seeing that crane in his laboratory. That sorry excuse for a scientist must have found a way to retrieve the Zorb without turning himself into mush. Or maybe he did turn into mush during the process of retrieving it. Ha, I should be so lucky. He must have it back with him on that despicable space station. Drat! I was hoping never to set foot upon that miserable mass of metal again.

  That was a close one! I grab my backpack and head down the corridor to my parents’ laboratory. Dad’s waiting for me at the entrance.

  The needle on Dad’s hilariosity meter is still stuck down there around zero. He thinks he’s hysterical, though. And, for some strange reason, so do the other kids at Sci-Fi Junior High. He’s become sort of a legend out here in space.

  “It, uh, took me a while to catch an elevator. They were really crowded.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’ll tell you, though—you get the chance to meet some really interesting folks riding those things.”

  Yeah. Interesting. Tell that to my nose hairs.

  “So, what’s going on? I thought I wasn’t allowed down here anymore.”

  “Oh, you’re not. Not after that stunt you pulled with my robot. But I’m making an exception today. I can’t carry all these boxes myself.”

  “But, Dad, we also saved the universe from whoever was piloting your robot!”

  “Well… maybe. But you were running pretty low on oxygen when we found you. Who knows what tricks your mind may have been playing on you.”

  “Tricks? That robot almost got the Zorb, Dad. Ask Spotch. Or Zot. Or anybody else who was there.”

  “Well, you were all low on oxygen.”

  “What, that container? Uh… nothing.”

  “Then why is it being guarded by robots?”

  “Well… er… you see, it’s just that… um… aw, heck with it. It’s the Zorb, Kelvin.”

  “WHAT?! It’s here? On the space station? But I thought it turned any living thing that got near it to goo! YIKES—like that poor guy over there!”

  “Oh. That’s Stevens. He always looks like that.”

  “That vault you’re looking at is made of impenetranium, which blocks the Zorb’s energy. And it’s three feet thick, so nobody is breaking into it. Not even your mother if you tell her it’s filled with chocolate-covered cherries. HAR!”

  “And I’m the only one who can get anywhere near it. The robots will scan any intruder that approaches the vault, and unless they exactly match my physical appearance, well… just watch this.”

  “Anyway, that should calm any fears you might have about someone stealing the Zorb and using it for no good.”

  “Not just for no good, Dad. For conquering the universe! That’s what Zot heard the guy in the robot’s control dome say. That’s why you should just destroy it. It’s too dangerous.”

  “But that’s exactly why we can’t destroy it, Kelvin. We need to examine it and study it and learn how to harness its power for the good of everyone in the galaxy. It’s completely safe, Kelvin. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  Nothing to worry about? Hasn’t he seen those movies where some scientist is working on a formula or something that he swears is safe, and then it turns a ladybug into a giant monster that eats Delaware? Or a scientist is working on a cure for hiccups that he swears is safe, and then he spills it down the drain and into the water supply and everybody turns into two-headed zombies? Why don’t grown-ups get this stuff?

  I spend the whole walk back to the LIV space trying to convince Dad what a horrible idea it is to keep that Zorb. I even tell him about those movies I saw.

  “Well, son,” he says, “I used to watch The Three Stooges when I was a kid. You don’t see me worrying about having a pie thrown in my face or getting poked in the eye with a rake handle, now do you? HAR!”

  Glad to see he’s taking this so seriously.

  “Look, Kelvin. I understand your concern, but everything is going to be fine. You’ll just have to trust me on this one.”

  Yup. That’s just what those movie scientists would say.

  We reach the door to our unit. I wonder if Mom’s home yet. She left the lab early to pick Bula up from preschool. Maybe she’ll have enough sense to see my side of things. Mom, that is. Bula doesn’t have enough sense to put her underwear on frontward. How she ended up in this family, I’ll never know.

  “Uh-oh. What did you get into this time, Lightyear?”

  Dad brought Lightyear home from one of the labs a couple months ago. He had lapped up a puddle of what they call matter replication liquid, so now he barfs up exact duplicates of whatever he happens to be looking at when he’s eating. Like his ball. And he’ll eat anything, including rocks. Sure, it’s gross. But it’s awesome, too!

  “I’ll clean this up,” I say to Dad.

  “Okeydokes,” Dad says. “I’ll order a new seat cushion and start dinner.”

  When Dad says “start dinner,” he means pick out the picture of whatever food we want for tonight.

  “Make dinner” means pushing the Select button on the food synthesizer. “Skip dinner” is what I usually feel like doing, since everything tastes exactly the same—like pencil erasers. Even the hot-fudge-covered chocolate chip brownies.

  I pick up the cushion balls and take them to my room. I’ve got a whole dresser drawer filled with these things made out of everything from toothbrushes to dirty socks. Hey, you never know when you might need a ball made out of glass (Mom’s favorite vase) or wood (Mom and Dad’s wedding picture frame) or synthesized grilled cheese (Bula’s lunch).

  I can’t really get mad at Lightyear, though. I mean, he’s already used his special talent to save my life once, so he gets some leeway. And he’s also responsible for my awesome trophy collection.

  I hear the whoosh of the front door sliding open.

  It’s Mom and Bula, home from preschool. Before she even gets the chance to put her bag down, I hit Mom up with my whole Zorb-must-be-destroyed pitch. I give her everything I’ve got, including some very convincing hand gestures and facial expressions. I even throw in the movie references. She’s holding her chin in her hand, so I know I’m getting through to her! Now she’s nodding her head! Yes! With her on my side, I know we can change Dad’s mind on this!

  “I understand your concern, Kelvin, but I’m afraid I’m with your father on this. Everything will be fine. There’s absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ll just have to trust us on this one.”

  Gee, where have I heard that before? I guess this is the downside to having both your parents be scientists. Now what am I supposed to do? And why is Bula grinning at me like that?

  “Anyway, we have some news. You know how Bula was having trouble focusing in class?”

  Because she’s got a hamster wheel instead of a brain? Yeah.

  “Well, they did a special evaluation to figure out what was going on. You know what they found?”

  I’m sticking with the hamster wheel thing.

  “Our little Bula here… is a genius!”

  You know, if Klosmo ever decided to become an evil genius, he’d probably make a pretty good one. Well, aside from the terrible jokes. He has the Zorb, after all. But the guy is such a Goody Two-shoes. I’m sure he’s planning to “examine” it and “study” it and “learn how to harness its power for the good of everyone in the univers
e.” Blech. What a putz.

  But all the better for me! While Klosmo wastes his time not using the Zorb to conquer the universe, I, Erik Failenheimer, shall swoop in and take it for myself. But how? He’ll have it under constant guard. And he certainly isn’t going to just hand it over to an evil little plushy bunny, no matter how cute I am. And even if I am in my Harrowing Handship!!! BWAHAHAHA!!! (I must admit-that does sound impressive!)

  No, I must find a way to make him give it to me somehow. Think, Erik. You’re a brilliant diabolical genius. This should be as simple as tying your shoes.

  Okay… bad example. Zarfloots! Coming up with a brilliant evil plan is more difficult than it would seem sometimes. This reminds me of when I was a child and my older brother, Karl, had that container of growth serum that I wanted so badly for myself. He finally gave it to me, but only after I agreed to trade my bike for it.

  Not such a bargain, really, since it ended up being a baby food jar filled with cranberry juice. If I ever see Karl again, I’ll… wait a minute! That’s it! I simply need to trade Klosmo something more valuable to him than the Zorb! But what would that be?

  Hmm. Possible, but by no means a sure thing. On the other hand…

  YES! Now we’re talking! If I capture his very own son, Melvin or Delvin or whatever the little goober’s name is, Klosmo will have no choice but to fork over the Zorb in exchange for him! And I’m still a few hours away from the space station, so I have plenty of time to come up with the details of a kidnapping plan.

  All right. I know I shouldn’t say this. I realize it hasn’t worked out too well for me in the past. But it’s a confidence thing. And it really gets my evil juices flowing! Not to mention, every diabolical genius throughout the annals of history has proclaimed these words on his or her way to ultimate evil glory. So why not Erik Failenheimer? I’m brilliant! I’m evil! And (fingers crossed!)… NOTHING CAN STOP ME NOW!!

  Wait! What’s this?! My Harrowing Handship!!! BWAHAHAHA!!!’s instruments have all gone dead!

  “Nah,” I say. “Something came up yesterday that kind of made me forget about the unforgettable thing for a while.”

  “What?” Spotch says. “I thought that was the top priority. Job number one. What could be more important than that?”

  I lay it on him. “My dad has the Zorb in his lab.”

  “What? THE Zorb? That’s impossible. We’d all be goo by now.”

  Although he doesn’t sound like it, Spotch must really be upset with this news. I actually saw one of his eyebrows move.

  “He’s got it in some kind of special container so he can study it. He says not to worry, that it’s completely safe.”

  Spotch isn’t any more convinced than I was. “That’s what the scientists always say right before something unexpected happens and everyone grows an extra head and turns into a zombie.”

  Wow. Movies must be the same everywhere.

  “Kelvin, we have to do something! You have to convince your dad to destroy that Zorb! Doesn’t he realize how close we came to disaster once already?”

  This time an eyelid rises a tiny bit. I think Spotch is starting to lose it.

  “I tried,” I tell him. “But he isn’t going to listen to me. He says it’s too important.”

  Spotch pauses for a second. Then he looks straight at me. “Well,” he says, “then we’ll just have to figure out some way to get rid of it ourselves.”

  Us?! Destroy the Zorb?! I’d be grounded forever! But if we don’t, somebody like that wacko in the giant robot could get ahold of it, and I’d be stuck mining grismak crystals or floobin ore twenty hours a day for the rest of my life.

  Spotch is right.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “But how would we do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “But we both know somebody who might.”

  Brian Stem! Smartest kid in the school… unless he gets nervous and his brain shrivels up like a raisin.

  What’s this? A dance? All thoughts of the Zorb disappear as I picture myself gliding around the dance floor with Luna. But that thought starts to fade when I remember I can’t dance. Then it totally disappears when I realize there’s no way she’d agree to dance with the school’s resident nongenius genius anyway.

  Okay, so now it looks like I have three things on my to-do list:

  1. Do something really memorable so I’m popular again and Luna will be impressed enough to dance with me.

  2. Learn some actual moves so she doesn’t run away after four seconds.

  3. Destroy the Zorb.

  And it’s pretty obvious which one is most important right now.

  So the dance is this Thoosday. That’s only five days away. I don’t think I mentioned it before, but out here a week is eleven days long. Eight school days and a three-day weekend. And days last twenty-two hours. Minutes and seconds are all goofed up, too. Just thinking about it gives me a headache.

  I fill up my lunch tray and head over to our table. It looks like everybody else is already there.

  Whoa. Did that really just happen? Luna Reeklipps asked me if I was going to the dance? I’m pretty sure the artificial gravity is still on, but I feel like I’m floating the rest of the way to the table.

  “Hey, Kelvin! Snap out of it! Spotch just told us about the Zorb! We’ve got to get rid of that thing, like, yesterday. Being turned into goo is bad enough, but goo floating around in a ball of water? That’s just nasty.”

  “Not to mention the whole destruction-of-the-universe thing if it falls into the wrong hands. What’s your dad thinking? He might be brilliant, but he’s not very smart.”

  The Luna-induced fog in my head clears away with the sound of panic at the table. The Zorb is more important than her interest in me. Slightly. I guess.

  “Sure wish you really were the supergenius we all thought you were right about now, Kelvin.”

  Don’t I know it. But at least I do have brains enough to know who can help us.

  “Hey, I agree with you guys. Spotch and I already talked about it. We figured Brian was the only one smart enough to come up with any ideas.”

  “Actually, I may have something. Give me a couple days to think about it.”

  “A couple days? We could be oozing down a drain by then.”

  Nice going, Gil. That’s all we need right now is a nervous Brian Stem. His brain will shrink down to the size of a grape and his solution will be to throw pickles at the Zorb.

  “Don’t worry about it, Brian. Take your time and we’ll see what you come up with in a couple days. Right now we all have classes to get to.”

  “Yup. And you have something to become known for, Kelv.”

  Oh yeah. In all the Luna and Zorb excitement, I almost forgot.

  It’s dinnertime, and I’m rolling my synthesized peas around on my plate with my knife. It’s a technique I’ve been working on for a couple weeks now. When no one is looking, I bat a pea or two onto the floor for Lightyear to gobble up. Then it’s a carrot. So far, so good. I’m about to test my luck with the synthesized meat loaf when I notice Mom looking at me.

  “So, Kelvin, it looks like you and Bula will be schoolmates starting next week.”

  “Schoolmates? But Bula’s preschool is over here on the space station.”

  “She won’t be in preschool next week. They’re moving her up to the second grade. Isn’t it exciting?”

  “Wait… what?” I nearly fall off my chair. “Second grade? But she’s only four. On our trip out here she didn’t even know what eighteen divided by three was.”

  “Well,” Mom says, “the people who tested her said her geniusness must have… now, what was the term they used… oh, yes—kicked in at some point in the past week or so.”

  Kicked in? I was right! That is how it happens!

  “They also said it’s possible she could advance three or four grades a year for the next few years.”

  Okay. Now I actually do fall off my chair. And I land right on the carrot that Lightyear was slow to get around
to.

  “But that means we could be in the same class by tenth grade!”

  This. Cannot. Be. Happening. I get back on my feet and brush the fake carrot off my pants.

  “This isn’t fair! I’m supposed to be the Mighty Mega Supergenius, and Bula is supposed to have a hamster wheel for a brain. Everybody’s already calling me Genius because I’m not one. Now my little sister is going to pass me up in school? When is it my turn? When is my increased brainpower going to kick in?”

  Bula still has that annoying grin on her face. “Maybe it already did. Maybe that’s how you got up to average.”

  I throw a synthesized pea at Bula. I miss, of course, so I guess being known as the guy with the great pea-throwing arm is out.

  Mom gives me that you-did-not-really-just-throw-a-pea look. “Actually, Kelvin, I asked about that very thing. They said it could happen any time now. Maybe. They said that yours might kick in at some point soon. Possibly.”

  “Maybe? Might? Possibly? Where’s the ‘will’? The ‘definitely’? The ‘certainly, positively, without a doubt’?”

  “Well, Kelvin,” Dad chimes in, “you just never know with these things. Not everyone is a genius, you know.”

  No, but everybody in my family is. Except me.