Revenge of the Star Survivors
Page 1
REVENGE OF THE STAR SURVIVORS
Michael Merschel
Holiday House / New York
For Melinda, Krista, Gabriella and Jacob
Copyright © 2017 by Michael Merschel
All Rights Reserved
HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.
www.holidayhouse.com
ISBN 978-0-8234-3817-4 (ebook)w
ISBN 978-0-8234-3818-1 (ebook)r
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Merschel, Michael, author.
Title: Revenge of the Star Survivors / by Michael Merschel.
Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, [2017] | Summary: “When his family relocates to a new town, sci-fi enthusiast Clark Sherman uses his encyclopedic knowledge of the hit TV show, Star Survivors, to both endure and battle the evils he encounters in his terrifying new middle school”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016028383 | ISBN 9780823436675 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Middle schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Self-confidence—Fiction. | Science fiction fans—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.M478 Re 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016028383
“I have a fear of moving. . . . I think it’s one of the two worst experiences that you can have as a human being—moving or dying. And I think moving is a little worse, because you’re there to experience it.”
—Norton Juster
MAYDAY . . . MAYDAY . . .
This is a Priority One distress call. Can anyone hear me?
Anyone?
My situation is desperate. I have crash-landed on an inhospitable world. Communication with my commanders has broken down. My shields have been compromised. I am critically short on vital supplies. I am isolated. Adrift. Cold.
Lonely.
Worst of all, I am surrounded by aliens. Hundreds of them. All hostile. They look humanoid, but so far I have been unable to make sense of their primitive social order, which is filled with arcane rites and rituals that no advanced life form could hope to comprehend.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was told I was the best and brightest of my generation and could handle whatever the universe flung at me.
I have learned, painfully, that was not true.
And so I find myself curled up in a corner of my shelter with only the barest necessities for sustaining life: an archaic computer, on which I recently started recording my observations; a supply of space-themed books, salvaged from the wreckage of my previous life; and a few chocolate snack cakes, which I smuggled from the kitchen.
My entire situation reeks of despair. That, and cardboard. From all the moving boxes. They are everywhere, most of them still packed. From the day they arrived in my life, my universe has been a mess.
My future appears as bright as the far side of a small moon of a dying planet near an imploding star.
By which I mean, not very bright. I probably do not even have a future.
I cling to one small hope: That if I write down what happened, perhaps I can analyze the data. Find a way forward. Or, in the likely event of my demise, leave a record for whoever comes across my remains. So others can learn from my mistakes.
There were so many. Beginning from the moment I landed.
EXPEDITION LOG
ENTRY 1.01.01
We were hurtling across the planet’s surface, seconds away from the drop zone, when my commander spoke.
“You really want to do this by yourself? You’re absolutely sure?” The tiny crease between her eyebrows told me she was as worried as I was.
“I’ll be fine,” I replied. By which I meant, “No, I don’t want to do this at all. I have never been so terrified in my entire life. Please take me home immediately.”
Unfortunately, I sent that second part via psionic mind blast, forgetting that I was not technically capable of telepathy. So if she received the message, she ignored it.
“OK, then,” she said, as our Odyssey-class transport entered the parking lot. “You just need to find the counselor, and she said they would handle the rest. You’re sure you don’t want me to . . . ?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. I tried to scan the terrain, but my breath had fogged the window. I quietly traced an SOS in the condensation, then wiped it clean.
“OK,” she sighed. She brought the landing craft to a halt. “Well, good luck then, sweetheart. I’ll see you when you get home.”
She reached across the seat to kiss me, but I quickly slid out of range, pulled the handle and opened the door. Icy, dry January air stung my lungs.
I set my foot on the frozen firmament. That’s one small step from a van, I thought. I was too nervous to add more.
The commander drove off, leaving me standing on the curb in a thin fog of exhaust.
I lifted my eyes toward the fortress-like structure ahead of me. It was a long, rectangular complex, constructed mostly of rust-hued brick, and it sprawled atop a low, wide hill. Its walls were punctuated at regular intervals by thin windows, kept narrow, I suspected, to prevent escapes.
I swallowed, trying to keep the taste of fear from rising in my throat, and stepped toward the building.
At least I’m properly provisioned, I thought, as I clutched my supply kit. It bore the bright green logo of a major league athletics organization known as the Cosmos. Not being much of a sports fan, I was not entirely sure where or what the Cosmos played, but I assumed that allegiance to such a team would help me blend in. The backpack was covered in cartoonish rockets and stars; I had felt very lucky the day we found it wedged in the back of the bottom shelf in the clearance section of the department store.
My uniform was certain to hold universal appeal with the natives as well: Jeans with the logo branded onto a small leather patch. A fuzzy brown sweater pulled over my favorite Star Wars T-shirt.
During my preflight research, I’d learned that things could get chilly here. So I had prepared by acquiring thick, insulated shoes that protected me from moisture, cold and gamma rays. Moon Boots, they were called. They hissed reassuringly as I walked.
And I had wrapped myself in a forest ranger–green thermo-protective parka, freshly purchased for this expedition. I had specifically requisitioned this model, because the description in the PBS catalog where I had first seen it made reference to the great Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton, who knew a thing or two about surviving in hostile environments. It had a big, furry hood, which I thought might shield me from sudden snow squalls. And with the bright yellow reflective stripes around the sleeves, there was no risk of being lost in an avalanche.
Also, it had the nice touch of being certified for high-altitude use by the RAF, as made clear by the circular insignia on the back, between my shoulder blades.
So attired, I was confident I would quickly blend in.
Yet somehow, I still noticed wary stares as I trudged forward, up the long walkway, past the flagpole, to the entrance.
“Excelsior,” I whispered.
I arrived on a concrete dock, where I faced a set of steel doors. Passing through them should have been simple. But three natives loitered there, watching me. I fixed my eyes on the ground. If I could just slip past them without engaging in any kind of communication, I would be perfectly—
“Nice jacket,” one said as I reached for the middle door. The tone of his voice registered as somewhere between “less than sincere” and “extremely sarcastic.” His companions began to either laugh or choke on something, I couldn’t tell which.
I did not return the greeting. Not drawing attention to myself was key to achieving my first-day objectives.
I failed to open it; it was locked. But my efforts did set three reactions in motion: First, the bolt rattling against the doorframe made a tremendous CLANG that drew the attention of every being in the courtyard (so much for not drawing attention to myself); second, my shoulder painfully absorbed most of the energy from my tugging, which caused me to blurt out something akin to “GAHH!”; and third, my clanging and GAHHing set the three loitering natives to a new round of guffawing.
“The door’s locked,” one said.
I raised my head, slowly, and tried to scan him with a sideways glance. He was tall—at least compared to me. He had stringy blond hair, long, whiplike arms and a thin, cold smile. His narrow eyes made me think of a big, carnivorous reptile. Only more dangerous.
“Thanks for telling me,” I said, staring at the door. “I could kind of . . . yeah. Locked. Heh.”
“Everyone knows this door stays locked until first bell,” the reptile boy said.
“Uh, I guess I’m new around here,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess I could tell. What’s your name?”
“Clark,” I said.
He snorted. “What kind of name is that?”
I turned to face him. “Uh, the one my parents gave me?”
The looks on their faces indicated I was dealing with simple creatures. So I tried to explain. “My dad liked the explorer.”
Silence.
“You know, Lewis and . . . ?”
Stares.
“He also liked it because of, you know, the Superman thing.”
The reptilian native appeared to think this over, then asked, “So I guess your dad’s a real douchewad, too?”
Derisive snorts.
I didn’t like the way this conversation was headed, so I turned back toward the building. “Umm, I guess I’d better, maybe, try another door and, ah, find the office,” I told it.
The reptile licked his thin lips, as if he had just been served a delicious meal and was about to devour it. “I think they’ll be able to find you just fine, as long as you’re wearing that coat. Jeez, is that a dead skunk hanging off the back of your neck, or what?”
I tried to process this data. The coat? That’s what this was about? But . . . how could the coat be a problem? When it came to blending in, I had expected a few difficulties—the sort that always occur when a being of superior intellect makes first contact.
But the coat?
I scanned the courtyard. Hmm. I did seem to be the only person in an Arctic-ready, fur-lined, RAF-certified parka.
YELLOW ALERT, went my brain. Because if my intelligence reports had failed me on the coat, why, they could be wrong about any number of things, such as my—
“And did your mom get it for you at the same Goodwill store where she got those boots?” the reptile asked.
RED ALERT. DANGER. DANGER. I looked down at the Moon Boots, which suddenly didn’t seem all that protective. Another quick scan of the courtyard revealed that everyone else had opted for athletic shoes with a curvy stripe along the side.
And their jeans? All of them bore red tabs. Not a single branded patch of leather to be seen.
My mouth went dry. Just minutes into the mission, and I was already outed as an alien interloper!
Stay strong, I told myself. And think fast. But do what? A display of confidence—yes, that could only help.
“My mom. Yeah. Ha,” I chortled. “Well, you know, she probably shopped at the same Goodwill that your mom goes to.”
I smiled weakly. It was not a world-class retort, but I had been hoping it would buy me some time until I could figure out how to make the doors open.
Instead, it somehow made the two sidekicks stand up straight, electrified. They watched the reptile, as if awaiting a signal.
His face, which had appeared pale in the wintry air, flushed red. He stepped toward me.
“Did you just . . . insult me?” he asked, in a voice that seemed a lot deeper than someone his age should have been capable of.
I thought, No, technically I just insulted your mother, but I stopped myself from saying that out loud. Instead, I just sort of stumbled away, until I could clutch the handle of the door farthest from him.
“It sounded like he was picking you!” said the smaller of the sidekicks excitedly.
The larger sidekick nodded. “Nobody’s been that dumb since—”
“Um, ‘picking?’ ” I interrupted, confused. I had neither seen any scabs nor come near his nose.
“You come into my space, and start talking about my mom, in front of my friends? I think it’s kind of clear you’re picking me for a fight,” the reptile said.
Oh. That kind of picking.
“You got any smart responses to that, Clark?” he asked with a sneer.
I suppose if I had packed a universal translator droid, I might have opted to stick around and try to explain that I meant no harm and came in peace. But all I had were my own wits. Which led me to say, “I’ll be careful?”
I was hoping he would get the cantina scene reference and decide I wasn’t worth the effort—or start worrying about a lightsaber attack from Obi-Wan, which is what had bailed Luke Skywalker out of a similar situation.
But it was apparently the wrong line to have chosen. Because instead of backing away, he glanced at his friends, then stepped closer and said, “You should have been careful, Clark. People who insult me—they pay.”
I didn’t need a translator droid to explain that. I just needed to get away, fast. I grabbed the door and yanked with all my strength.
At which moment, the air was pierced by a strange metallic buzz. Which I would later come to understand was the sound of the door being unlocked remotely.
I did not understand that at the time, though. Which is why the now-unbolted door responded to my exertions by flying open with great force—at least until it met resistance.
Which it did, from the side of my face.
I saw stars.
Not the inspiring kind.
1.01.02
Apparently, instructions for entering Planet Festus, a.k.a. Loretta T. Festus Middle School, were posted on a sign right beside the front doors. Next to the buzzer that would have alerted the office to let me in. The buzzer someone had pressed right as I yanked on the door.
I had seen none of this because the reptile and his posse had been blocking my view.
I learned about the buzzer after the aide who saw me lying in the doorway had escorted me to the Festus sick bay, which was operated by one Nurse McDowdy.
The nurse was a large, soft woman whose shape reminded me of a giant pear, although this particular pear had a swirl of reddish hair where the stem would be. Also, her eyebrows were missing, and had been replaced with thick, brownish lines apparently drawn by an old Magic Marker.
Nurse McDowdy communicated with a series of clicks and clacks:
“(Click) I don’t know what it is with you boys. (Clack) Always roughhousing and ignoring the rules. (Click) Don’t have the sense God gave a chicken. (Clack) And on your first day, no less. (Click-clack.) This is no way to make a good first impression.”
Perhaps I would have thanked Nurse McDowdy for her wisdom had she not been pressing a little too hard on the cloth ice pack she was applying to the swelling flesh beneath my right eye.
The good news is that Nurse McDowdy’s quarters were situated in the “office” area I had been seeking. So that much of my mission was done. Maybe she would just provide comfort and a place to rest and let me make a fresh start tomorrow.
But here is a quirk about the chief healer of Planet Festus: She was remarkably disinterested in doing any actual healing. After a few minutes, she reclaimed her ice pack, dispensed some more wisdom—“Maybe that shiner will teach you to pay attention to the rules next time (click-click-click)”—and declared me fit for duty.
With that, she pointed me across a narrow hallway to the office of the person who would determine w
here I would be stationed within the facility: Counselor Blethins.
As I flopped into a seat and tried to process everything that had just happened, I found myself thinking, How did I get into this mess?
This mission, as you might have guessed, had not been my idea. The commanders and I had been based on my home planet for many years. It was a small, predictable place in a part of the galaxy that was remote but secure. Think of Tatooine, but with oil wells and orange trees instead of Jabba the Hutt and Jawas. Also, we did not actually maintain any moisture vaporators.
One commander was a reporter at the town’s newspaper, and the other had a little photography studio where she shot portraits for people who, I presume, did not have friends to take snapshots for them.
Anyhow, a little more than a solar year ago, the commanders acquired their second spawn—me being the first—which somehow ignited a series of events that led to our relocation. They explained the reasoning to me; I can’t say I was able to process it at the briefing. All I had really heard was: new job for Dad at a great big newspaper. In a big new city, a thousand miles to the east and a mile higher than our home base.
Then the changes had come at faster-than-light speed. At Halloween, I was tripping over John Kerry and George Bush yard signs while trick-or-treating in my homemade robot costume. By Christmas break, life was a blur of cardboard and bubble wrap and sweaty men with packing tape and my commanders yelling into phones demanding to know why the moving van with everything we owned had first been diverted to Winnemucca and then gotten snowbound in Boise. And now, here I was, a stranger in a strange school, trying to check in two weeks after the start of the semester.
I closed my eyes, trying to recall all the friendly details of my old planet. I could tell you how many steps it took to get from the light switch in my bedroom to the safety of my covers in the dark (four), how many Jules Verne–era balloons were on the peeling wallpaper border above my door (13½), how many spots in the ceiling were missing those little popcorn bumps because of ill-advised efforts to launch rocketlike projectiles indoors (three), how many movie posters with the words star or galaxy in the title hung on the wall next to my bed (seven).