Parker was still laughing, watching Bubba gobble the last of the crash-landed corn dog when Dr. Seabrook entered the Mess Hall. After cleaning up their lunch dishes, they followed Dr. Seabrook downstairs to a room that resembled the locker room of a professional sports team like the ones Parker had seen on SuperVision in ads for designer toenail fungus cream heralded as able to turn your toenails different colors. It always seemed a bit odd that the makers of the expensive salve were interested more in capitalizing on the itchy, painful, smelly affliction than on curing it.
“Hey, Parker, you’re over there!” declared Bubba. Parker snapped-out of his memory and looked around. Five partitioned cubbyholes had been prepared, each one resembling a small closet. Above each cubby hung a sign bearing a name. Bubba stood pointing across the room to a sign showing Parker’s name. “And there’s me right next to you!” He and Parker ran to their cubbyholes. Sunny and Colby ran to their own cubbies. Igby strolled casually to his cubby and sat down in a nearby chair.
Hanging from a rod, Parker found his black uniform, the pants, shirt, and boots worn by his friends. Next to these items he found a long, dark green, full-bodied flight suit. A shiny black zipper ran from the neck all the way down the front of the suit. On the top shelf, he saw a sleek, shiny, dark green helmet, the same color as his flight suit. A gleaming mirrored visor covered the front of the helmet. Parker peered into the visor, studying his own dark reflection. He picked up the helmet. It was surprisingly light. He had always dreamed of having a job which necessitated the wearing of a helmet. He couldn’t wait to try it on.
“These are your KID Suits,” Dr. Seabrook announced. “Please put them on.”
“What do we wear under our KID Suits, Doctor Seabrook?” asked Sunny.
“Exactly what you have on,” Dr. Seabrook replied. “Remove your boots and slip both feet in. Then put your arms into the sleeves as you would when donning a coat. Your tuners will arrive shortly should you require assistance. Parker, your uniform was brought from your room and is next to your KID Suit. You may change around the corner in the restroom.”
Parker grabbed his uniform and boots, along with clean socks and underwear. He was eager to put on clean clothes and even more eager to match the attire of his friends. All morning, he’d felt singled-out. Being berated by General Ramsey less than five minutes after waking up was worse than being the only one not in uniform. He ran to the restroom and pulled off his wrinkled red T-shirt and dropped his smelly jeans. He replaced his underwear and socks, then pulled on the black pants and T-shirt. They were a perfect fit. He slid his feet into the new black boots. They must have been one size too big, as his toes wriggled freely inside them and the toe of each boot felt long and floppy. Eager to join the others, Parker hurried to retrieve his old clothing from the bathroom floor and ran to the locker room, trying not to trip over his over-sized boots.
“Allow me to introduce some close friends of mine,” Dr. Seabrook said. Parker returned to his cubbyhole and stowed his dirty clothes. Two men and a woman stood next to Dr. Seabrook. Parker recognized them as the people who had been standing behind General Ramsey in the Infirmary before lunch. Each wore a grease- and dirt-stained yellow jumpsuit with a black zipper down the front and many smaller zippers sewn into the arms and legs. On the shoulder of their suits, Parker saw the Candyland patch bearing the fearsome eagle he’d seen on the wall of the Main Hangar and emblazoned on Igby’s KID Suit.
“Looking good, Park,” whispered Bubba when he saw Parker.
“Thanks,” whispered Parker. “Who’re they?”
“This is Tupper Jones,” Dr. Seabrook said, looking directly at Parker. Dr. Seabrook gestured to a massive man with his arms folded across his broad chest. “Tupper knows more about quantum robotics than anyone in the country, perhaps even anyone in the world. He was also the favorite to bring home at least one Gold Medal from last year’s Games in Milwaukee if they hadn’t been canceled because of the war.”
“Yowsa,” said Tupper.
“In addition to issuing odd greetings like that one, Tupper personally owns seventy-eight patents for his inventions,” said Dr. Seabrook, “some relating to the Go-Boy Project, some not. My favorite, of course, is the self-replicating banana.”
“I’m trying to end world hunger,” explained Tupper. “I figured most folks enjoy a nice banana now and again.”
“He should’ve made a self-replicating pizza,” Parker whispered to Bubba. He saw Bubba’s body shudder as he stifled a laugh.
“Is there something you’d like to share, Mr. Perkins?” asked Dr. Seabrook.
“Not really.”
Dr. Seabrook stared at him.
“Momma always says honesty is the best policy,” whispered Bubba.
“Indeed it is,” said Dr. Seabrook.
Parker decided to answer Dr. Seabrook’s question. “I said, Tupper should’ve invented a self-replicating pizza.”
“Amen!” shouted Bubba.
“What’s wrong with bananas?” asked Tupper.
“Tell him, Sunny,” said Parker.
“Too many bananas can cause constipation,” said Sunny.
“Constipation?” asked the other man in the yellow jumpsuit. A thick accent muddied his English. “This is new American rock and roll group?”
“Sunny?” said Parker.
“According to the New Webster’s Dictionary and Thesaurus, constipation is defined as infrequent passage of dry, hardened feces due to poor functioning of the bowels,” Sunny reported. “Bananas are very dense fruit. Eat too many and they can really bind you up.”
“Okie dokie,” said the man with the accent. “I am thanking you for this important news.”
“No problem,” said Sunny.
“Next to Tupper is Wendy Lee,” Dr. Seabrook continued. Wendy stood as tall as Dr. Seabrook and smiled a brilliant smile when he introduced her. “Wendy has dual degrees in aeronautical engineering and biomechanics. She is a highly decorated fighter pilot boasting more than three hundred confirmed combat kills, more than any other aviator alive today, male or female.”
“Yowsa,” said Wendy. She grinned at Tupper and elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “And it’s three hundred twenty-seven kills, to be exact.”
“How many kills do you have, Colby?” asked Bubba.
“Twenty-six from both seasons on the SuperVision show,” replied Colby. “Plus fifty in both of the Go-Boy movies.”
“That makes one hundred twenty-six,” said Sunny.
“Actually, it’s one hundred twenty-five because he only got forty-nine kills in Go-Boy . . . Forever, remember?” said Parker. “That last F-99 Zavtra pilot ejected right before impact.”
“That’s true,” agreed Bubba. “He survived.”
“Nuh-uh!” countered Colby, “he got eaten by the Killer Koala Bears, remember? If I hadn’t shot him down, the Koalas would’ve had to sit there getting stupid on gum leaves.”
“I still don’t think it counts,” said Parker.
“Me, either,” said Bubba.
“Me, either,” added Igby.
“Sunny?” asked Parker, “what do you think? Does it count?”
“I’m with Colby on this one,” said Sunny. “I think he should still get credit for the kill because he defeated one of his opponents. I don’t think Colby should be penalized for what happens when pilots drop in on a bunch of marsupials with the munchies.”
“My contract always stipulates how many kills I get,” said Colby, “so I’ll have to check with my lawyer. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because it’s just a dumb SV show and everything is fake. I’ve never actually been in combat. I don’t know how to fly a real Go-Boy.”
“None of us do, Colby,” said Parker.
“From what it sounds like, hotshot,” said Colby, “you must have a Go-Boy simulator at home in your living room.”
“But I’ve never actually flown, Colby,” replied Parker.
“Finally,” said Dr. Seabrook, “I wish to present Royd Frigga. Royd comes to us by way of
the European Institute for Engineering and Physics. Royd also studied propulsion systems at Tel Aviv University and at Technion in Haifa, Israel. He is literally a rocket scientist. He has also been a pilot since he was eight years old. If it flies, he can tell you how it works.”
“Unless eet eez hummingbird,” said Royd, his accent heavy. “Hummingbird too fast for me. So I make robotic hummingbird. Veddy small. Run entirely on sugar, just like real bird.” Dr. Seabrook gave Royd a let’s-get-on-with-it stare. “I show you later.” Royd stifled his big, toothy grin.
“These are your tuners,” Dr. Seabrook announced. “They will each act as Crew Chief for your Battle-Suits. They will help you fine-tune the suit, much like motorcycle racers have tuners who help get the motorcycle ready before a big race. My apologies, Sunny, for the chauvinistic metaphor.”
“That’s okay,” said Sunny. “No apologies are necessary, doctor. I love motorcycles. My big brother used to have one. I rode on the back with him all the time. Especially during the summer, when it was warm and we could ride at night. He used to take me to Cony Island and buy blueberry cotton candy for me. It always made my lips turn blue. That was before he. . . .” Sunny looked down at her black combat boots. She looked up again. “Before he got killed in the war. My parents sold his bike right after that. I begged them to let me keep it until I was old enough to ride it. They said it was too dangerous. They said parents should never have to bury their children, and one was enough. But I’m getting a bike as soon as I turn eighteen.”
“A pink Vespa?” asked Colby.
“No, a Jixxer One-Thousand,” said Sunny.
“Pink and white?”
“Candy-Apple Red.”
“That’s a pretty serious machine,” said Colby.
“I’m a pretty serious girl,” said Sunny.
Colby smiled. Sunny smiled back at him.
Parker writhed internally. He knew almost nothing about motorcycles. But that wasn’t what bothered him. It was seeing Sunny smile at Colby.
“Six hundreds handle better,” said Colby. “I rode one in Go-Boy . . . Unleashed.”
“I told you I like to go in fresh!” said Bubba.
“Sorry, Frank,” said Colby. “I forgot.”
“Apology accepted,” said Bubba.
“Who’s Frank?” asked Dr. Seabrook.
“Frank Costanza,” replied Colby. “Creator of Festivus. And George.”
“I don’t even want to know what that is,” said Dr. Seabrook.
“Six hundreds do handle better,” said Sunny, “because they’re lighter and have narrower tires and are more flickable. But you’ll eventually get bored on a six hundred. You won’t on a one-thousand.”
“What kind of bike did your brother have?” Colby asked.
“A Jixxer One-Thousand.”
“When did it happen?” asked Wendy.
“Last year. Right after I met Parker and Bubba.”
“Is that why you missed all that school?” asked Bubba.
“Yes, Bubba,” Sunny replied. A tearful sparkle shone in Sunny’s bright eyes.
“They said you had the mumps,” said Parker.
“No one gets the mumps anymore,” said Sunny.
“That was what I thought, too,” said Parker. “I had never heard of it. I had to look it up. Highly contagious. Your salivary glands swell up like baseballs. It’s pretty gross.” Parker didn’t know what else to say. He just stood there. Bubba went and put his arms around Sunny.
“What’s his name?” asked Igby. “Your brother. What’s his name?”
“Steven. My parents called him Stevie. It drove him nuts. I’m not allowed to talk about him. My parents say it’s easier if they pretend he never existed.”
“My condo-licenses for your loss, my dear,” said Royd.
“Condolences,” said Wendy, correcting Royd’s improper English. She tenderly rubbed Sunny’s arm.
“Yes, yes,” said Royd, “veddy many condolences.”
Bubba released Sunny.
“Thank you,” she said, looking up at Bubba. Her eyes came to rest on Parker. He found it difficult to look Sunny in the eye.
Royd continued, “Your great Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman once say, ‘War is cruelty. The crueler eet eez, the sooner it vill be over.’ I think all of us have something to say about that, no?” Royd looked around the room enthusiastically.
“Which brings us back to my original point,” said Dr. Seabrook. “As I was saying, Bubba, you’ll be working with Tupper. Sunny, you’re paired with Wendy. Colby, you will work with Royd.”
“Max Colby!” declared Royd. “I am fan number one for you!”
Colby smiled broadly at Royd’s enthusiasm.
“He got your name wrong, Wizard of Crap,” said Bubba.
“At least I have a fan, smock-boy,” countered Colby.
“What about me?” asked Parker. He hoped to stop the banter between Bubba and Colby before it escalated. “And Igby?”
“Igby and I work together,” replied Dr. Seabrook. “On such short notice, I’m afraid I don’t have a separate Crew Chief for each of you. Because you are the most experienced Go-Boy pilot we have, General Ramsey and I thought it best if the other kids work one-on-one with their tuners. Should you require assistance, any one of us will be at your disposal.”
Parker didn’t like being the only Go-Boy pilot without a Crew Chief. He wasn’t so sure about being referred to as the best pilot, either. Admittedly, neither Sunny nor Bubba had ever defeated him in the Go-Boy simulator. But they still flew and fought well when they took the game seriously. He had yet to see Colby and Igby in action, though he suspected marching around on a sound stage in an alloy Battle-Suit mock-up did little to improve their actual flying skills. Igby, however, had apparently flown across the country in less time needed to have a pizza delivered. Parker decided he would do his best to live up to Dr. Seabrook’s appraisal of his knowledge and abilities. To do otherwise would not help him in his quest to find his dad.
Bubba managed to finish wedging himself into his KID Suit, which, sadly, was much too small for him. He struggled with the zipper, his face turning red from the effort.
“How’s your KID Suit fit?” asked Parker. He unzipped his own KID Suit and began to put it on.
“You’re not funny,” replied Bubba. “What’s this thing made of?”
“Yoctoprocessors,” replied Igby, “woven into a sentient mesh.” He lay back comfortably in his chair.
“Sentient?” asked Sunny. “You mean the KID Suit is alive?” Sunny’s eyes widened.
“Not exactly,” said Igby. “It’s capable of feeling. It has the power of sense perception. This enables it to convey to you if you’re hurt or injured or if the suit is damaged. Like if you’re on fire or something. Cool, huh?” Igby smiled broadly.
“I just hope they’re strong,” said Bubba. “Because this thing does not fit.” Bubba pulled harder on the zipper.
“We can let it out a little here and there,” said Tupper.
“You can?” Bubba asked hopefully, giving up on the zipper.
“You bet,” said Tupper. “Actually, the suit does all the work.”
“Good,” said Bubba, “because I can’t fly like this.” He gestured to his open suit.
“You said it,” said Tupper. “Now, Bubba,” he continued intently, “I’m the Crew Chief for your Go-Boy Battle-Suit. You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together during the next couple weeks. After each flight, we’ll debrief. I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on with the suit, how it handles, how it performs. Concentrate on how it feels. We’ll get all the systems dialed-in in no time. Now hold still so I can measure you, then we’ll feed the numbers into the KID Suit’s brain.”
“The KID Suit has a brain?” asked Sunny from across the room. “Oh, yuck, gross, get it off me!” Sunny began fumbling for the zipper on her flight suit.
“This coming from the girl who was preparing to serve us chocolate-covered toma
to worms?” said Parker.
“And who wants to ride a Jixxer One-Thousand?” added Colby.
Parker pulled his KID Suit up onto his shoulders and zipped the zipper all the way up to his neck. The suit fit loosely, awkwardly, just like his boots.
“Those are just bugs!” replied Sunny. “This is totally different.”
“Relax,” said Tupper. “It was a figure of speech. My mistake. I apologize. The brain is just a computer, just like the one in your boots.” Parker looked down at his new boots. “Your flight suits and your boots have a learning computer built into them. Interpretive software analyzes your movements and behavior. In a moment, the neural net will adapt to your body size and shape. In a few days, it will learn your individual movements. The suit will become like a second skin.
“These learning computers will also communicate with the bio-processor in your Battle-Suit, so your physical health will be monitored at all times,” continued Tupper. “Now, where was I?” Tupper pulled a nylon tape measure from around his neck and proceeded to measure Bubba at various points on his body. Parker looked around and saw Sunny and Colby being measured by Wendy and Royd.
“I’ll take your measurements, Parker,” said Dr. Seabrook, coming over to stand before him. “Igby will be proceeding upstairs to prepare for the demonstration. So I can assist you with your fitting.”
“Thank you,” said Parker. He liked Dr. Seabrook taking time to help him. Since yesterday, he’d been feeling one step behind his friends. This would be his chance to catch up. “What’s the demonstration?”
“You’ll see,” said Dr. Seabrook, his eyes gleaming. “There we are.” Dr. Seabrook completed the measurements. “If Tupper, Wendy, and Royd are ready, we’ll begin.” The three tuners acknowledged with a curt nod. “Excellent. Kids, please put on your helmets and sit down in the chair next to your locker. Now that we have all your measurements as a safety precaution, we’ll begin the kinesthetic integration and desensitization.”
“The what?” asked Bubba. He grabbed his helmet off the shelf.
“The fitting,” replied Igby.
Parker picked up his helmet and turned it upside down to look inside. The interior of the helmet felt soft and thickly padded. He held it with both hands and gently pulled it onto his head. His breathing became louder in his ears as the silver visor covered his face. He blinked in surprise as the mirrored visor quickly faded to a transparent one, until he felt like he was looking through a perfectly clear piece of glass.
“You’ll notice the auto-correcting blast shield,” said Dr. Seabrook. “The visor is programmed for optimal viewing in all lighting conditions. It will protect your eyes from sudden blasts of light as well as from the sun’s ultraviolet and infrared rays. Your face can get sunburned pretty fast when you’re flying around at fifty-thousand feet. Touch your forehead to raise the visor any time you like.”
Colby raised his visor. “What’s your story, Ig? Why aren’t you trying on your space monkey suit?”
“I was fitted for my flight suit a couple years ago,” replied Igby.
“I’m told it is a bit uncomfortable,” said Dr. Seabrook, “but I ask you to please bear with us and it will all be over soon.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Colby.
“Yeah,” echoed Parker.
“On the count of three,” Dr. Seabrook announced. “One . . .”
“Wait a second,” said Parker.
“Two . . .”
“I said wait, please,” Parker said.
“Three.” Dr. Seabrook tapped a button on a nearby touchscreen.
Sunny cried out first.
Followed immediately by Bubba and Colby. They began to squirm in their seats. “It feels like I’m being bitten by fire ants!” yelled Bubba.
“Those aren’t ants, you idiot!” said Colby. “We’re being electrocuted.”
“You’re not being electrocuted,” said Igby. “What you’re feeling is an electronic nucleotide fusion. The KID Suit is sampling your DNA.”
“Get it off me. Please,” whimpered Sunny. She looked pleadingly up at Wendy, who stood next to her chair.
Bubba and Colby began fumbling with their zippers.
“This sucks plasma!” said Colby.
“You can say that again!” echoed Bubba.
“Movement interferes with the fusion,” warned Dr. Seabrook. “The more you squirm, the worse it is and the longer is lasts. Hold still, please.” He consulted his touch-screen. “Telemetry is coming in now. You’re all approaching twenty-five percent.”
“Twenty-five percent!” said Colby. “That’s it?”
“I’m going to kick twenty-five percent of your plasma!” declared Bubba.
“And I’m going to help him!” said Colby.
Parker forced himself to sit very still. He tried to relax. He tried to think about something else. He imagined himself flying through the clouds. Big, puffy, white clouds like cotton balls stretched across a perfect blue sky. That’s where he longed to be. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair. He fought against the pain sizzling his skin inside his suit.
“Well, done, Parker,” announced Dr. Seabrook, “you’re at eighty-six percent.”
“What am I at?” asked Colby.
“Me, too!” said Bubba.
“You’re both just over fifty percent,” replied Dr. Seabrook. “Hold still now. It’ll all be over soon. An hour from now, this will be a distant memory. Sunny, you’re nearing seventy percent. Excellent work.”
Sunny sat staring up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. Wendy stood nearby, whispering words of encouragement.
Parker felt a tiny jolt, stronger than before, then his KID Suit began to constrict around his body. His boots began to feel tighter. His helmet squeezed his head.
“Dr. Seabrook,” he said, hoping he sounded calm. “My suit is getting tighter.”
“Don’t worry,” said Dr. Seabrook, “it only constricts between three and five percent. Your fitting is nearly complete, Parker. Well done, son.”
In their chairs, Sunny, Bubba, and Colby squirmed. They each tried to stand up. Wendy, Tupper, and Royd held them down.
Parker felt the constriction stop, as did the sensations of sizzling electricity. He breathed a sigh of relief, forcing himself to let go of the chair. He slowly stood up and moved around a bit, testing his suit. He had to admit, both the suit and his boots fit better than they had before. He almost felt as though he weren’t wearing them. “Hey.” He shook his head around and looked quickly from side to side. The helmet no longer rattled around on his head. He reached up with his hand and touched the side of his head. Where he expected to feel his own hair, his fingers found the smooth composite helmet. It was difficult to tell he was even wearing it. He took a few steps, testing his boots. They were just the right size and clung perfectly to his feet. He felt like he could run the Kingdom City Marathon, like Sunny’s mom did each year.
“Not bad, eh?” asked Dr. Seabrook.
Parker smiled broadly and nodded. He noticed a patch on his shoulder. It was the Candyland insignia. The eagle looked even more ferocious up close. The eagle’s talons were locked around the candy canes. The bird’s piercing gaze and massive wings made him feel confident. They made him want to go flying. On his chest he saw another patch: PERKINS.
The other kids sat stiffly in their chairs, still enduring the nucleotide fusion, being forcefully restrained by their tuners. “Hang in there, guys.” Parker hoped his encouragement would help.
“Easy for you to say, ace,” Colby grunted, “you’re all done.”
“You’re at ninety percent, Colby,” announced Dr. Seabrook. “Bubba, you’re at ninety-five percent. Expect constriction in approximately five seconds.”
“You mean like a boa constrictor crushing a rabbit?” asked Bubba. “Whoa! It’s getting tighter.” Bubba squirmed in his seat. Tupper struggled a bit to hold him down. Then Bubba’s suit seemed to expand as if by magic. The tension on the zipper subsided and
it slowly zipped itself up to his throat. “I know I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I don’t remember agreeing to this.” Bubba clamped his eyes shut and waited as the KID Suit wrapped itself around his neck. “Hey, it stopped.” Bubba blinked and stood up. He came to stand next to Parker. “You’re right, Park. It does feel pretty good. It’s like jammies.” Bubba grinned.
“Jammies my plasma! Whoa, that’s too tight!” screamed Colby. “Oh, that’s better.” Colby relaxed and stood up.
“All done,” announced Dr. Seabrook. “Sunny, you all right?”
Sunny nodded and slowly stood up as well.
“Well, that was fun,” said Colby. “Can we do it again?” Parker couldn’t help but smile at Colby’s sarcasm.
“Just don’t lose your suit,” said Igby.
“Why not?” asked Bubba.
“Because,” said Igby, “Dr. Seabrook will have to make a new one and then you will have to do it again. Trust me, I know.”
“You lost your KID Suit, Ig?” asked Colby.
“I didn’t lose it,” said Igby. “I misplaced it.”
“When?” asked Colby.
“About a year ago.”
Everyone laughed.
“I’ll find it,” said Igby. “I think it’s somewhere on floor twelve, where we had the luau last year. I took it off right before the limbo contest. That was the night Jack got hit in the nose with the croquet mallet. Poor guy.”
“Igby, why don’t you head to the Main Hangar and get ready. We’ll give you a head start, then meet you there.”
“Sure thing.” Igby grabbed his helmet off the shelf in his cubby and headed for the door. “If you guys think this was fun, you’re gonna love what’s next.” Igby smiled like a mad scientist, which, Parker supposed, he technically was. A scientist, that is.
After enduring robotic eye surgery, cardiovascular stress tests, and electronic nucleotide fusion, Parker couldn’t even begin to imagine what more lay in store for them.
Chapter 12
Ever-so-slightly
Bring On the War Mice Page 10