XANTHOS GOT ME thinking: If my father had a backup spiritual advisor, what else might he have had a backup for?
How about the most important tool in his possession: The List? The computer that acted like an ultrasecret wiki about the superpowered psychopathic aliens that were plaguing Terra Firma. I’d lost it when I ended up in Number 1’s hospital of horrors, and my chances of finding it now were less than zero. But if there was any way of learning Numero Uno’s weakness—if he had one—it would be in The List.
Maybe some part of my father’s extremely sharp mind realized that there was a remote possibility that the information he gleaned from the high tech computer might be compromised. That there could be a mole or a double agent working inside the highest levels of the Alpar Nokian Protectorship, feeding The List information for his (or its) own purposes.
No matter how far-fetched such a conspiracy, it would still be—for my father anyway—what he called “a potential possibility.”
And, therefore, he would have a backup. A computer he knew he could trust.
I walked across the yard and sat down in my old tire swing to think.
Focus, Daniel, I heard my spiritual advisor say. Clear your mind. Concentrate only on what is important.
I did as Xanthos advised. I blocked out everything except my internal search engine. It’s like my own personal Google and it can find anything, no matter how obscure, that has made even the faintest impression on my long-or short-term memories.
“Search for computers,” I said. “Alpar Nokian models and makes.”
Knowing my dad, I figured he would have brought along his own personal computer when he went on the mission to Terra Firma. Maybe the trusty laptop he had used when he was studying at the Academy.
I added more layers of filtering for the search. “Portable. Extremely reliable. Made at least fifteen years ago. Able to communicate seamlessly across planetary broadband platforms.”
And then I remembered my dad’s favorite color.
“Orange.”
In my mind’s eye, I immediately saw a rotating image of a small prism tinted orange. It was made up of twelve five-sided glass panes. One pentagon served as the top, another as the bottom. There were two rows of five similar pentagon panels making up the sides of what looked like a miniature version of a Death Star.
It was the Tusk 5-12, a clever Alpar Nokian computer that linked communications, computation, and home entertainment into a single device the size of a paperweight.
According to my internal database, its primary component was a mineral called flervoniumide, which can only be found in the deep pit mines of Alpar Nok.
I extended my right arm straight out in front of me. I flipped up my hand and flexed open my fingers. I was transforming my palm into the high-precision search coil of a VLF metal detector. The kind of minesweeper you see being used by those dorks on the beach, searching for buried treasure.
Hand open and arm fully extended, I marched across the hardscrabble remnants of our backyard and into the woods behind our farmhouse.
The pings in my ears grew louder and closer together.
Soon I was hiking through the lush green grass at the edge of the salt marsh.
The pings became a steady beep.
I knelt down.
Pulled out a rooty plant. Scraped away six inches of muck.
And there it was. My father’s emergency backup computer. Made of noncorrosive flervoniumide, with a battery that constantly recharged itself whenever it was within three feet of salty water. The Alpar Nokian Tusk 5-12.
I picked up the Tusk and studied the twelve animated screens.
One gave me the current weather conditions for Earth and several other planets. Another was running an old Charlie Chaplin movie. In a third, a text message scrolled across the screen. It was from my father:
“Hello, Daniel. I hope you are well. Remember, son, you must always have a backup. It isn’t a weakness. It is a strength.”