by Jeff Norton
Unlike our competitors, whom Sonya said would stick to their own kinds as single-species crews, we had four different planets’ worth of know-how to pull from. So we were going to put our diversity to our advantage.
As we talked, Houston projected a constantly updating 3D hologram of what we were proposing. Slowly, a model took form.
We agreed to combine the speed of a missile-style rocket with the maneuverability of Sonya’s Eggcraft. Houston illustrated a fusion-powered double-rocket chassis with a crew cabin on top, fronted by the nose of a modified F-18.
Somewhere, Will Smith was smiling.
* * *
Every night, when the melting pot of Groom Lake went to sleep, we met up at the hangar to build our racer. It was like having two lives. During the day, we’d go through the motions of school life – classes, lunches, bully avoidance – and at night, we’d meet to make the ship of our dreams.
Despite Houston’s promise of a disguise for the races, I was still fearful of getting caught. But one night, as the schematics for the racer were coming together, he wheeled in a large steel trunk.
He opened the lid, revealing his solution. “This is how your identity will be hidden from the authorities.”
I gasped when Houston opened the box. His own severed head stared back at me from inside. It was tucked away with a dismembered metal torso and and four limbs. The case housed a Houston doppelganger. Brand new, some assembly required.
“Someone you know?” asked Sonya, tentatively.
“Not all of my people successfully made the transition to robot form. This ecto-shell was for my … is vacant,” said Houston.
Octo put one tentacle round Houston’s shoulders, another around mine.
“So who,” I asked, “was this suit meant for, you know, originally?”
“My twin brother, Aldrin,” Houston said. “He didn’t survive the digitization process.”
We went quiet for a little while. I didn’t know what to say. Jessica was annoying but there was a comfort in being a twin. I couldn’t imagine losing that. I thought of Buzz Aldrin and how Houston’s parents must have heard about – or seen – the human moon landings, just like my parents did, all those decades ago.
“But if anybody asks,” he continued, “I’ll say that you are him, Sherman. It’s only fitting, he was named after a brave human rocketeer.”
“Houston, it’ll be an honor,” I said, shaking his hand. “I’ll be sure to do your brother proud.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
School Days and
Rocket Nights
The one class I’d always loathed before moving to Groom Lake was fast becoming a firm favorite. Drama was a lot more fun when you were the leading man. Octo was cast as Mercutio, Romeo’s ill-fated best friend, and a Yazzerbeast named Crezzert was typecast as Tybalt. In art imitating life, Romeo also had an unsupportive father, to be played by a Martian called Quudo.
I was starting to master the Shakespearean dialogue and loved every scene with Juliet. I don’t know if it was my crush, the fact that human survival depended on my wooing her, or her otherworldly acting skills, but when we were on stage, I was convinced that we were destined to be together.
When we rehearsed Act One, Scene Five, Romeo and Juliet’s first meeting, the energy was electric. I got to lean in and kiss her for the first time – Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take – and my lips literally sizzled. It felt like a small fraction of the power of the universe passed between us. It was energizing and alien at the same time.
And I wasn’t the only one who seemed to be crushing. A natural pairing-off had occurred in our little rocket crew. While Octo had moved into my never- before-occupied best friend position, even inviting me over to his tank for dinner, Houston and Sonya became a dynamic duo. At the hangar, they were completely in sync, passing each other the right tools without so much as a word between them. And when they did talk, they finished each other’s sentences.
“Is there something going on between you and Sonya?” I asked Houston one night, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“No – we’re just friends, and work well together and …” He looked round to check that she wasn’t close by. “Why, do you think she likes me?”
“You guys seem pretty tight,” I said.
“Is that a good thing on this planet?”
I smiled. I was glad I wasn’t the only one embarking on an interplanetary, cross-cultural romance. Romeo and Juliet may have had warring families keeping them apart, but Juliet and I, Houston and Sonya; we had intergalactic culture to overcome.
* * *
One night, after an intense session assembling the cockpit, I crept back to the hangar because I’d forgotten my backpack. But I wasn’t alone.
As I rounded the corner I heard footsteps, one set soft, the other heavy. At first, I was scared our secret assembly space had been discovered, but as I ducked behind the nearest stack of pallets to see who was there, I spotted Sonya and Houston.
Dancing.
Sonya soared with graceful jumps that were a complete mismatch to the black overalls she was wearing.
And Houston wasn’t just following her lead, he was stalking her. Just a couple of paces behind. Never taking his eyes off her for a second …
It wasn’t until he projected a floating image of Sonya dancing that I realized he was filming her, recording and playing it back in full 3D holographic glory.
He was helping her to practice the Balleropera, the ritual dance her species performed for the NEDs.
I watched in secret for over an hour – being tucked away watching my friend practice an amazing array of jumps, lunges and vocal acrobatics was a pretty good night’s entertainment.
I smiled, but it was only a small smile. Sonya looked so happy dancing with Houston. I just wished the dance didn’t come with the death penalty.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Meet the Octos
One night, I followed Octo’s tentacle-drawn map to a warehouse five blocks from our secret hangar to finally meet his folks. Their home was actually about the same size as the hangar, only much newer and shinier. When the massive iron door rumbled open I half-expected to see a stealth bomber inside. But instead, my twenty-tentacled friend glided out of the darkness.
“Welcome to the aquarium,” Octo said. “My folks can’t wait to meet you.”
After the blazing early-evening sunshine, the darkness of Octo’s pad seemed pitch black (though beautifully cool and air-conditioned). But though my eyes adjusted to the Sea World-sized alien aquarium, my brain pretty much refused to.
I was surrounded by an enormous U-shaped tank, home to two massive ventitents. Octo’s mama and papa were as big as killer whales. Octo was a miniature carbon copy of his dad, but his mom had purple tiger-stripes instead of yellow, and – I think – some equivalent of lipstick on her beaks, because they were a glossy ruby- red. Or was it crimson? It was hard to tell with the green hue of the water.
Little galaxies of bubbles swirled upwards every time they moved. Somewhat disturbingly, I could hear their hearts beating – rhythmic, pounding, underwater drums.
“Mom, Dad,” Octo said, “this is Sherman. Sherman, this is my mom, Urta, and my dad, Hank.”
Octo sat me at the head of the table that was surrounded by the U-shaped tank, and he squatted opposite. Hank and Urta floated in the water beside us with their tentacles intertwined lovingly.
“Good afternoon, sir, ma’am,” I said. “Thanks for having me over. Oh, and my dad says to say, great work with the recovery in the Pacific.”
A small, orange-cuboid robot with telescopic arms hovered out of the darkness and poured cans of Pepsi into the glasses of ice by our plates.
“That was an adventure,” chuckled Urta.
“And romantic,” added Octo’s dad in a gurgling, baritone-deep voice, which I suddenly realized I could hear from little loudspeakers on the rim of the aquarium. “We spent a few days off the coast of Hawaii after tha
t mission, just the two of us.”
Urta swam towards the glass. “Word in the BAA community is that your father’s doing a bang-up job in Stationery.”
“Um, yeah,” I said. “I don’t think he’s loving pushing envelopes.”
“We all do our bit, Sherman,” said Hank.
“I suppose you’re right,” I said, thinking aloud. “All these aliens, living here, but doing their best to stop the human race from freaking out at not being the only intelligent species in the universe. I guess it’s a lot of work, right? Work that requires deep sea recovery and a steady stream of stationery.”
“He’s certainly intelligent,” said Urta, smiling with all three rouged beaks. Octo’s dad looked down at Octo with what I could only interpret as an approving nod.
“You’re right, son,” came a bellow from the loudspeaker. “He is smarter than he looks.”
The top of the tank was completely open. A fluorescent green lagoon. Little waterfalls cascaded from pipes at the corners, and every so often tentacle- tips flicked above the surface like a Loch Ness monster sighting.
The Z-Five robot served up pizza-sized crispy green leaves onto our table, then leaped into the tank and delivered pincerfuls of the stuff to Hank and Urta.
“Let’s eat,” Octo said.
“Deep-fried Phaxxosian sea moss,” Hank said, munching. “We get it imported from the deli on U’hoa 3, where we first met. Isn’t that right, my lovely?”
Urta planted a kiss on Hank’s cheek. “When it was just the two of us,” she said. “And now our little boy is all grown up.”
She turned to Octo and said, “Oh, how we’ve missed you.”
It turned out Octo had been home alone – or rather, squidysat by the robot – for a few weeks. Hank and Urta worked with the Salvage and Rescue Division of the Bureau, and had just helped raise a crashed Xentaurian mothership from the bottom of the Pacific.
“You should have seen it, Sherman,” Hank said. “Imagine a skyscraper bursting up from the ocean …”
“Was anyone on board still alive?” I asked.
“That ship is thirty-two thousand years old,” said Urta. “So, no, dear.”
“But the interesting thing is that about that same time the Xentaurians’ home planet was being destroyed by a geological event,” added Hank in classic, dad- knows-best tone of voice.
I looked at Octo and mouthed, NEDs?
Octo nodded, mouthing, Has to be.
“Think about it, Sherman,” Hank continued. “The surface of this little world of yours, it’s blue. Seventy per cent water. Most of what crashes here ends up on the seabed, and some of it’s been there a long, long time.”
Hank and Urta told some great stories about deep diving, salvaging alien relics and even rescuing a ship full of teenagers who’d crashed in the Arctic from Xelian9. Unlike my dad, these two clearly loved their jobs with the Bureau.
“But never mind all that,” Urta declared. “What really matters is this sister of yours. Octo’s quite besotted.”
“Be-what?” I teased. “Oh, you mean he’s totally crushing on the swamp monster I’m forced to live with?”
“Ooh, she’s from a swamp, is she?” asked Urta. “Good breeding eggs, those swamp monsters, I’ll have you know.”
Octo’s yellow stripes turned bright pink and he rolled his eyes at me. “See what you started.”
His folks giggled with the gentle, teasing laughter of a sitcom family. It was the kind of laugh-track that had been absent from the Capote clan since Mom died.
Before I could offer extensive insight into the misguidedness of Octo’s crush, he managed to steer the conversation back onto me. “Actually, it’s really Sherman who’s the lovelorn one. He’s got it bad for an Icon.”
“A deity?” Hank gasped. “Well, check you right out, Sherman Capote!”
“How progressive.” Urta looked impressed. “You kids today.”
“Have you asked her on a date yet?” asked Hank.
Octo tentacle-slapped me on the back and let out a raucous, cephalopod guffaw. Hank and Urta pressed their beaks against the glass, awaiting more gory details.
“I’m planning to ask her to the Prom,” I said. “But it’s not for four weeks. I have time.”
Hank pointed a tentacle straight at me. “Has your brain dried out? An Icon expects—”
“Sherman,” Urta gasped. “You have no time!”
Hank intertwined his tentacles with Urta’s. “When I first saw this fine specimen of sea life, do you think I waited one minute to ask her to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance?”
“Um,” I said, looking to Octo who shook his head like he’d heard this one a thousand times. “I’m guessing … no?”
“Exactly,” said Hank. “I swept her off her tentacles!”
Octo put down his sea moss. “You know what, buddy? It’s true. What if you finally ask Juliet to the Prom, and she says no? What if someone else asks her first? You need to lay groundwork now, buckaroo.”
“But you said—”
I wasn’t sure if it was okay to mention the races in front of Octo’s folks, so I stopped talking. I just sat there, chewing on the surprisingly delicious alien seaweed. I thought the whole point of the let’s-win-the-Rocket- Races project was that it’d make actually asking Juliet … well, kind of a formality.
Because I’d be cool then, right?
On the other hand, risking a “no” from Juliet meant a crushed planet, not just a crushed Capote.
Maybe these ventitents were right. I had to man up.
“There’s a double bill at the drive-in on Saturday,” Octo said.
“Show her that you’re interested,” Hank agreed. “You must woo her before asking such a big commitment of her.”
“Think of it as a prelude to the Prom,” said Octo. “A warm-up date.”
“Maybe even make it a double date,” added Hank. “Eh, son?”
“Let’s just focus on Sherman’s love life,” Octo said.
“But I don’t even have a car,” I said. “I can’t walk to the drive-in.”
Octo piped up. “Hey Hank, Sherman can use the Toyota for the drive-in, right?”
“If it’s for love,” his dad said, “certainly.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her,” I said.
How hard could it be?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The War of the Worlds
Later that week, I loitered outside the auditorium, nervously waiting for Juliet to emerge. The hallway was packed with students shuffling between classes, but I was in my own little world. I spotted a scrunched- up candy wrapper made of transparent cellophane. Each time the doors swooshed open it sailed on the breeze, then got sucked back when they swooshed closed. I could see faint AJABot caterpillar-tracks on the linoleum floor, a collection of dust bunnies that might have been mating like, well, bunnies, and a spider scurrying up its web between the wall socket and the doorstop. It’s amazing what you notice when the last thing you want to think about is what you’re about to do.
Trying to do.
I was so distracted that I was even accidentally nice to Jess.
“Excellent acting today,” I said as she swanned by with three note-taking Martians in tow.
“Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word,” she declared, “do as thou wilt, for I am done with thee.” Then she punched me on the arm, stuck out her tongue and joined the mass of alien life forms bustling down the corridor. She was still annoyed that she had been cast in the supporting role of Lady Capulet and not the lead.
As I waited for my Juliet to appear, something tugged at my sleeve. A someone.
“Sherman Capote!” squealed a little Martian, with a wide, toothless grin. He gazed up at me with his giant shiny black eyes. He’d just eaten a tangerine, or maybe Martians naturally smell of tangerines.
“Um, hi …”
“Klaatu!” he said in his cyber-chipmunk voice. “You remember Klaatu?”
“Oh, hey, Klaatu,” I said, shuffl
ing my feet. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Standing in the corner, staring into space.”
“It’s called waiting,” I explained.
He pulled a flyer from his little backpack and pressed it into my hands. “Stimulation while you wait! Vital instructional information for the Prom! All must prepare!”
The flyer showed a gigantic mechanical tripod war machine about to smash through London Bridge. It was an old-fashioned, pen-and-ink-style drawing. And above it, written like a vintage newspaper headline, one word:
PROM!
“That’s great, thanks, Klaatu,” I said, just as his jumpsuit started to twinkle, reflecting something iridescently, astonishingly, heartbreakingly blue.
“Hello, Sherman.”
My wait was over. I looked up, saw Juliet’s luminous, perfect face peering around the auditorium door and instinctively stuffed the flyer into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Hey, Juliet, I’m … er …” I stuttered. “What a coincidence to bump into you here.”
“He was waiting,” stated Klaatu.
“Well … I was wondering if, well … would you mind if I asked you about something? If you’re not busy?”
Pull yourself together, Capote.
“I was hoping to speak with you, too,” Juliet said.
The idea she’d thought about me, even for a moment, caused a burst of happy electricity to tickle me all over, including, strangely, my left butt cheek.
That was actually Klaatu pulling the flyer out of my jeans pocket.
“Store … keep … yes,” he said, “but also read! Read the instructional information, Sherman Capote! All must prepare!”