“I know that everything I have told you sounds really weird,” he sighed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I mean—no. You don’t sound weird. This place is weird. You know? I haven’t been able to figure it out. At all. So no. You don’t.”
“It’s hard to find people who understand,” he said. “In my family, they’d call me an anomaly. If they knew what that word meant. They’re not so into . . . knowledge. They’re more about sports. Which I am not.”
“Yeah, I saw you at dodgeball,” I said, thinking of one of the few days he had not vanished after roll call during Athletics. “I mean, um, well, you saw me at dodgeball too.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s why I’m calling you. I knew you could relate.”
“But . . . you couldn’t say it in person?”
He paused before replying. “I’ve gotten used to working alone. Unencumbered. Logically, I can see advantages in some sort of . . . mutual cooperation pact. But it’s like I said. There are . . . consequences. Unseen dangers. You’re not a fan of Star Survivors by any chance, are you?”
I swallowed. “A little.”
“You know that episode where they get trapped aboard the abandoned base on Ice Planet Nine?”
“The one with the walking, hemoglobin-sucking ‘zombie’ plants?”
“Precisely. You know how the plants start picking off crewmembers by honing in on their infrared signature every time they gather in a group? And Maxim and Steele have to survive on their own until they can find a safe place to come up with a strategy?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “But I’m not sure how that applies to—”
“It’s this simple,” he said. “If anyone sees us together, they will eat us. I have watched this happen. The only survival strategy is to keep out of sight.” I heard a door slam in the background, and his voice turned soft and urgent. “I have to go. Noon, Saturday, at Sand Creek Park. Meet at the bridge. Be sure you are not followed.” The call ended.
I wasn’t quite sure I understood what was going on in Les’s head. He seemed slightly unstable, extremely paranoid and possibly dangerous.
But hey—I had weekend plans.
3.05.01
Les is right about the risks of being seen associating with the wrong people.
While walking from science to social studies today, I had to pass through a hallway that is a nesting ground for some of Planet Festus’s most vicious native inhabitants. Specifically, it contains the adjacent lockers of Stephanie and her cloned friends—Kaitlin, Kaitlyn and Katelyn. They were engaged in some kind of preening behavior that involved applying a glossy liquid to their lips and staring at themselves in small mirrors.
Another girl, full of trepidation, approached the flock. She apparently needed access to her own locker, but the Kaitlins kept blocking her, while also ignoring her, which took some creative choreography.
“Come on. I said I was sorry,” the girl implored as the Kaitlins kept staring in their mirrors. “I was only talking to her because she was my partner in Spanish! We’re not friends!”
One of the Kaitlins walked away and whispered something to Stephanie, who had moved off to the side. There was giggling as the whole crew gathered in formation and headed down the hall.
“Why won’t you listen to me?” the girl pleaded. The group kept walking.
“I HATE YOU ALL!” the girl shrieked as the flock laughed together loudly.
They went one way; she slammed her locker door and went the other.
Which proved something I had already come to suspect: The natives here are cannibals.
And if they’re willing to eat their own—just for talking to the wrong person—can you imagine what they have in store for me?
I redoubled on my commitment to Les’s strategy: Keep to the shadows. Work alone. Do not become food for zombie plants. Or worse.
3.06.01
Received a timely communication in math class.
Remedial math is a challenging hour, by the way: challenging to stay awake in. But I have incentive to remain alert: Ty Hunter and Bubba Pignarski have class across the hall at the same time. If I don’t flee as soon as the bell rings, they often catch me and liberate something from my person—a notebook, or textbook, or anything else they can grab and fling.
Today I managed to slip past them on the way into class, where Mr. Schmidt was writing a problem on the whiteboard. This is his teaching method: He demonstrates a problem on the whiteboard, he works out the problem again on the whiteboard, and then he hands out worksheets so we can copy the problem. At the end of class, we turn in our work. If we are still conscious.
Being a math teacher, he is not that big on words. This is fine with me when it comes to listening to him talk about remedial math. It is not so good when he confiscates books he catches me reading when I am supposed to be doing worksheets. So the challenge is to hide my paperbacks in my lap and hold a pencil upright while I read. Since my brain is not usually otherwise engaged, I am up to performing such subterfuge.
I slipped my collection of Ray Bradbury stories into the desk and reached for the math textbook in my Cosmos backpack. As I was setting it down, I scanned the desktop graffiti. I was able to learn the names of several popular musical groups and the personal habits of one or two teachers. This was just like every other desk in the building.
But at the lower edge, I spotted something unusual: a doodle of a spaceship. And not just any spaceship: It was the sleek shape of the Fortitude. Beneath it was written EPISODE 47.
It was a coded message, from one fan to another. I was sure of it. And it constituted the single greatest word problem ever posed to me in Mr. Schmidt’s class.
I racked my brain, running through the shows in order. Episode 47, was that the one with the bat people? The one where gamma rays give Commander Steele superspeed and age him at the rate of one year each hour?
No. It was the one where Steele and Captain Maxim are captured by Dr. Creatosid and are able to escape only when Steele unscrambles the communicator passlock code and slips it to Maxim . . . under the table!
I quietly reached under the desk. I felt paper—something had been stuck there among the petrified gum globs. I peeled it off, slipped it into my lap and read: Need an escape to Andromeda? Try the closet.
Another code!
As anyone knows, Andromeda is a nearby galaxy, but even so it’s far beyond the range of the Fortitude. There’s only one way to get there, as demonstrated in Episode 23, when, in order to escape pursuing Vexons, Captain Maxim orders the ship to plunge into . . .
A wormhole! Someone was telling me that the closet held an emergency wormhole!
Great, I thought. Someone who believes in wormholes wants me to walk into the math teacher’s supply closet. The odds of this being useable information were approximately—
“Sherman?”
Huh? I thought. “Huh?” I said.
It was Mr. Schmidt. He must have noticed me deep in thought, which would not have been part of his lesson plan.
“You will concentrate on your worksheet, please.”
Oh, yeah. The worksheet. Wouldn’t you know it, he’d passed out an extra-long one. And he was making us show our work. Show our work! I could show him a thing or two about—
I looked at the clock. I had spent about a third of the class pondering the code. So I needed to get busy.
I raced through the problems, but I felt like an elite runner who was stuck in a sandpit. Not that I would know anything about being an elite runner. What I meant was, the math was simple, but to break it down into component steps was time-consuming. I plodded along, filling out lines, watching the clock, pacing myself so that I would finish at just the right—
There. I completed the worksheet with a minute to spare. Really not hard at all, for someone of my advanced—
“If anyone needs an extra moment to complete the problem on the back, I can write you a note for your next class,” Mr. Schmidt intoned.
The back? The BACK?
I flipped the paper over, and there it was—a big, gnarly word problem with at least seven steps to be written out, leaving me with an even bigger problem: how to finish it and get down the hall ahead of Hunter and Pignarski.
I scrawled, I rushed, I muttered Martian curses as the bell rang. I suppose I could have turned in an incomplete paper, but pride was at stake here. Also, there was the slightest chance that Hunter and Pignarski might get bored and move on without me. I chanced a glance at the doorway as I slapped my paper down on Mr. Schmidt’s desk.
Not only were Hunter and Pignarski nearby, but Jerry Sneeva had joined them. The whole gang, together again. Like a reunion episode of the worst TV show in the history of ever.
I slowly made my way back to my desk. No sense in rushing now. Better to apply all my energy to an escape plan.
Mr. Schmidt already had his back turned as he prepared his whiteboard for the next class. I briefly considered asking him for assistance. Then I reasoned—the adults on Planet Festus, with the possible exception of Ms. Beacon, had not demonstrated NASA-engineer-like levels of ability with solving my problems, and Mr. Schmidt hardly seemed like someone who would buck that trend.
No, I couldn’t seek his help. I also couldn’t walk out. And I couldn’t stay in his class forever. That left . . . the wormhole.
Schmidt had his back to me. The triplets were distracted for the moment—their waving gestures indicated they were laughing at someone’s gas-passing. It was as close to a smokescreen as I was going to get. With the noise of my actions drowned out by the chaos in the hallway, I carefully turned the knob on the supply closet and slipped inside, hoping for the best.
I found . . . darkness. It was an ordinary closet. One that smelled of pencil shavings. Well, this was just great. I hadn’t expected to discover the actual Andromeda Galaxy, but I had hoped for something. I began feeling my way around, hoping to find at least a light switch, but there was little to see beyond the thin lines of light coming from the cracks under the doors.
Wait—doors? Did I say doors? By the nameless spirit of Ahor, yes I did. There was the door I had come through, behind me, and one in front of me that led to the next classroom over!
I felt for the knob. I opened the door a crack. The classroom I peered into was vacant, the teacher already off to lunch. I slipped out of the closet, slid along the wall and peeked into the main hallway. I had completely outflanked my foes, who had their backs to me.
I offered a silent thanks to my Fortitude crewmate and cruised safely toward the cafeteria.
3.07.01
It did not take rocket science to figure out that the person who had helped me was Les. I didn’t want to think about how closely he must have been watching me to know where to leave that coded message, but his wormhole had totally saved me.
Some might call my escape maneuver “weak.” Or “cowardly.” Or perhaps “running away like a frightened bunny.” But I’m not ashamed. Well, not that ashamed. Space history is full of heroes who spent at least some time ducking and hiding and sneaking away from problems. Isn’t that the basic summary of Han Solo’s entire career? And things worked out OK for him. I mean, aside from being thrown into a deep freeze and turned into wall art in the living room of his worst enemy and all.
Maybe Han Solo is not such a good example.
But survival: It’s a star explorer’s first order of business, Captain Maxim would say. And I have developed special tactics to help me get through each day alive. Such as being aware of my surroundings at all times. Knowing the terrain and the movements of my enemies. Charting high-risk zones and taking precautions for dealing with them.
Take the gym, for example. I am at particular risk after Athletics, at the end of the school day. Because when my enemies don’t get to harass me in the locker room, where Coach Chambers is often not watching, they sometimes like to stalk me on the way home.
I usually just need to hide out for a few minutes. My predators have blessedly short attention spans, and simple patience is often all it takes to outwit them.
Except when it is not.
Like today.
It was my own fault. The gang had been entertaining themselves by putting one another in headlocks—the sort of ritual for establishing dominance one often sees among small-minded, feral primates—and I should have just made best possible speed out of the building.
Which I was doing, until I rounded a corner and was distracted by a most unexpected sight: Stephanie Spring slinking out of the ARC.
I started to hail her, but she turned away and put in some fancy-looking earbuds that meant she would not hear me or anyone else. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved, but I was definitely curious: What could she have been doing in the ARC?
I decided to check things out.
It wasn’t the first time I had dropped into the ARC after school. More than once, I had waited out my pursuers there. Ms. Beacon never asks questions. Sometimes she even lets me help with shelving and stuff.
As I entered the ARC this time, it’s possible I could still detect Stephanie’s delicate flowery perfume in the air—it’s not a scent I could easily forget—but I saw nothing else that indicated her presence. The returns cart held only a couple of atlases, an Encyclopedia of Classic Rock, a couple of fantasy novels that I had read years ago and that same book of electronics projects I had seen Les carrying the day I met him. Maybe he had been here too?
I was about to turn and leave when Ms. Beacon emerged from her office with several public radio tote bags draped over her arms.
“Can I help you carry those?” I asked.
“Actually, I would appreciate that, Mr. Sherman,” she said. “I am in a bit of a hurry.”
I took a bag in each hand and watched as she locked the library behind her. Our footsteps echoed as we walked the near-empty corridors.
“I trust that I am not keeping you from any important extracurricular activities?” she asked.
I shook my head. True, Star Survivors would be on soon. But it was nice to spend a little extra time with another sentient being, even if she was a teacher.
In the parking lot we found her vehicle, a blue Subaru with one faded bumper sticker that said TREE HUGGING DIRT WORSHIPPER and another, fresher sticker that said, THOSE WHO CAN, TEACH. THOSE WHO CANNOT, PASS LAWS ABOUT TEACHING. We loaded the bags into the hatchback.
Ms. Beacon looked distracted as we did so. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she looked worried. As if an adult whose life revolved around books could have much to worry about. When would I ever learn to accurately read emotions?
“Thank you, again,” she said. “It has been a long day.”
“It was simple.” I shrugged.
“Simple acts can reveal true character, in people who are of good character,” she said.
I blushed a little at that. But I tried to keep up my end of the conversation.
“So, I guess you’re probably headed off to home to like, read a book or something?” Which is what I assumed a librarian would do in her off hours.
She looked at me as if she were trying to make up her mind about something. “A book sounds nice,” she finally said. “But I’m afraid I have to visit a friend in the hospital.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I thought back to the time I had spent in the hospital to have my appendix out. My mom was in full hover mode all day, which got annoying, especially when I was just trying to watch TV. When she wasn’t there, Dad was, and to my great disappointment I didn’t get to sleep underneath one of those giant beeping computer screens showing all my vital signs like on the Fortitude. “You probably have to, like, crowd in with your friend’s family and stuff.”
She gave me another curious look. “Actually, I have to wait for them to leave. They don’t particularly care for me.”
This shocked me. What kind of person would have a problem with Ms. Beacon? “They must not be very . . . intelligent,” I blurted out.
Her lips pursed as she held b
ack a smile. “You are an observant and honest person, Mr. Sherman,” she said. “I respect that.”
I said nothing but was pleased to have earned her respect.
“And I suppose we all must deal with people who are not intelligent enough to accept us for who we are. But I take inspiration from a science-fiction book I once read about life on a desert planet, where water was more valuable than gold and expended only on the most precious things. When I have to deal with such people and am tempted to start engaging with them, I tell myself, ‘They are not worth the spit.’ ”
I laughed at that.
“And now I must go. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Sherman.” “Bye,” I said. “And, uh, good luck.”
She got in and closed the door. Her Subaru buzzed out of the parking lot, through the perpetual puddle of snowmelt at the curb, down the street and out of sight.
As I turned to walk toward home, I spent a moment attempting to classify the emotional readings I was picking up. As I just noted, emotions are not my strong suit. It is a trait I share with Commander Steele, although I would trade this commonality for his pocket laser and mastery of the deadly Omegan combat technique known as the Fingers of Defibrillation, a skill that enables him to incapacitate enemies with an open-palmed thrust to the chest (accompanied by his signature yell, “K’HAHHHHHHH!” and the tagline, “Never cross paths with a determined Omegan”).
I looked around the parking lot. I rarely left the school by this vector. My usual exit led to a sports field, which was adjacent to a rugged, undeveloped slice of land known as Sand Creek Park. Home base was on the other side of the park. I usually walked around the park by staying on a well-traveled road that cut to the south. The walk took fifteen minutes most days. The commander came for me in the transport only during particularly bad weather, as class dismissal overlapped with naptime for the spawn.
I sometimes cut straight across the park as a shortcut home—but only when I had a clear head start on my enemies. Today, they had fallen off my radar. I had no idea where they might be.
Revenge of the Star Survivors Page 5