The first night was awful, although it started much better than Mark expected. The Ice Cream Fest and then the Great Big Burger Bash kept everyone occupied with a simulated holiday, as if something had happened worth celebrating. So there was some sense of well-being, even a little cheer, when the followers of Scott and Helene spread across the Rock, calling out a message to one and all. An invitation from Principal Jeffers to meet in the gym before dark — for planning and assessment of the situation.
And — for the many who wanted it — prayers.
* * *
The population spike that followed when Cirocco Labs set up the big research center at Twenty-Nine Palms had forced replacement of the old, ramshackle High School with one that was gleaming and new. A state-of-the-art campus helped draw employees out to Cirocco’s research works in an arid land of cactus and Joshua trees.
Entering the gymnasium with his friends, Mark felt reassured by its massive cinderblock walls and double-pane glass. A long, hollow box, its plain walls bore only the electronic scoreboard and a few banners in TNPHS green and gold. Cool and fortresslike, it had been the first refuge of many dazed and confused students, who clustered together on the lower-left rows of fold-down bleacher seating, coaxed by Miss Williams, the guidance counselor. Some of them still wept or clutched one another, many hours into this interplanetary exile.
Another crowd clustered in very different spirit around Dave McCarty, who held court within a circle of admirers, squandering charge as he displayed image after image on his scroll-tab, showing off discoveries, like his map of the surrounding territory featuring freshly-named mountains. Plus images of native creatures: mostly those flyers with leathery or coarsely feathered wings and long, toothy beaks. Two girls elbowed each other competitively, till each of them won a native species, forever hers in fame.
Mark chuckled once, yet found the images disturbing. He wondered about those teeth. Heck, even plant-eaters might turn dangerous.
Take those insectoids – the Glow Wings… or Glowings – that seemed to gather in greater numbers by the hour. Mark watched one of them land on the back of his arm, while Alex and Barry scanned the bleachers for friends to sit with. The little creature was about the size of a large moth and – so far apparently — harmless. They’re drawn by something about humans, maybe our smell, he pondered. Watching closely, he saw the creature unroll a tongue-like extension and tensed as it made contact with his skin. But there was no bite or penetration, just a gentle licking, as if delicately sampling the chemistry at the base of some hairs.
“Look,” Barry nudged. “There’s Conner and ‘Cardo and the Hammar boys.”
“Aren’t you part of the science demonstration?” Alex inquired. Barry winced, then shrugged. And Mark realized, there were status wars among the nerds, as well. Funny how the top thing we bring with us is our bad habits. Our hang-ups.
Set in a square-cornered ‘U’, steep metal slat benches embraced the basketball court. The bleachers should have been full, with youngsters crammed in across the floor, as well, but not everyone had come. Mark felt sure at least a hundred kids - maybe two - were missing even after the crowd had been settled for about fifteen minutes, waiting for Principal Jeffers. The most shell-shocked students and townies might be unable to leave the classrooms where they were hiding.
There were also the guards outside, equipped now with two pistols and a deer rifle — all the firearms that anyone would admit to having. Mark suspected there must be more weapons in nearby homes or tucked under car seats in the parking lot, but Jeffers hadn’t pushed it.
And maybe some had stayed outside to watch a new sun go down. The strangely mauve glow of this world’s twilight penetrated broad, high windows lining what had been the north side of the gym. So I guess that must be west now, Mark thought. Ah well.
Frankly, they were all lucky even to have an indoor space like this, after the snatch across a galaxy and getting dropped onto an alien planet. Designed to California earthquake standards, the school buildings had all survived the shock pretty well, though several nearby houses seemed ready to collapse.
“Do you think they’ll hit the lights?” Barry asked. “There are generators, I think. The carnival definitely has some.”
“If it was up to me, I’d save fuel,” Alex said.
Mark only shrugged, listening to the endless other questions all around him—
“—gonna start already?”
“Where do we sleep?”
“Sleep? What are we going to eat for Christsake?”
“Don’t take His name in vain.”
“Oh, shut up, Susie, I wasn’t even—”
“You think it’s true that some people are already leaving the rock? I heard some of the skateboard guys did it just to piss off Mr. Flatley.”
The Rock. A good name for a stronghold. Or – didn’t it used to stand for a famous prison? We’ll only be as strong as we make ourselves, he thought. Look at us. Look at me. Everyone had kept close to their best friends, and with the student body stacked up here in the gym, old divisions were even more apparent, the bleachers spread with a patchwork of “tribes” — jock, geek, surfer, X, barbie, even goths, yup.
The core of the TNPHS climbing team sat with Mark, Alex, Barry, the Hammars, along with several X Kids and some of Barry’s math club friends. Hayashi had a strange look on his face. I’ll have to ask Froggi if he really was crazy enough to hop over the side.
Sure it was natural to cling to friends, in a time of crisis. But tribalism could also be a recipe for disaster. Mark knew he should have made more of an effort today to reach out, making sure people were okay instead of just running around to keep himself busy.
Sorry, Dad. I can do better. I will.
Abruptly – with an ominous pop and flicker — the gymnasium lights came on, a welcome flood that overpowered the windows’ disturbing purple twilight. Powerful symbolism, this was what Denzel Jeffers must have planned.
The surrounding babble dropped to a low murmur as the principal entered at half-court along with Mr. Castro; Mrs. Swain, who taught English; three members of the student council, including Scott Tepper; and Bryant Marshall, a short, dark block of a man who owned the Chevy dealership. The rest of the staff stood or sat on a row of folding chairs along the far wall, or among the student body. The crowd of students and townspeople let out a low, happy murmur with some applause, although Alex muttered and shook her head, disapproving of wasted electricity. Especially when the Channel Six reporter and her tech stepped right in front of the teachers and student leaders – and suddenly the gymnasium scoreboard came alight with zoom-holo images of the principal.
The psychological boost is worth spending a little gas, Mark thought, no matter that he’d risked his life for what they were burning in the generators right now.
Jeffers strode in a short hook to face every part of the gym.
“Okay! Let’s get started!” The acoustics were fine for his booming voice and Jeffers’ footsteps clopped a steady, confident beat as he passed the front row of Mark’s section, then paced methodically to his left, never stopping. “Can you all hear me!” Jeffers called, beckoning with both arms.
“YAAAAAAAAA!”
A thousand voices surged in answer and Mark felt goose bumps down his neck. His own voice seemed to push out of him with a will of its own. Grinning, Jeffers put a hand to one ear, indicating everyone should try again.
“Yeah! WHOOOOOO!” This time even Alex gave it everything she had. Encouraged by their own noise – and perhaps by an ice-cream high — it became a wild, echoing surge. Jeffers pumped his fist and yelled himself, turning to the faculty and student leaders, waving them to their feet. Scott Tepper gestured to Helene and to Colin Gornet and the football squad. They and the JV team roared back at him: “Spooks! Spooks! Twenty-nine spooks!”
At least as many cheerleaders, girlfriends, and coaches took up the TNPHS fight song, joined by kids all over the stands.
“—nine, twenty-nine—”
Stunned by his own reaction, Mark joined in, singing the words aloud for the first time in his life.
“Always rising to the fight!
Do or die, day or night!
Twenty-Nine Palms …”
It was hokey — so “Friday lunch” — pathetically dumb, a patriotic love-in at the end of the world. And it felt perfect, with Jeffers belting louder than anybody. Even Barry, who’d never attended a pep rally, stomped and clapped and blinked back tears. Alex cried outright and she was far from alone. The raised voices held a tinge of sobbing now, the decibel level falling but still fierce, full of terror and triumph together.
Hysterical release, Mark figured. He had seen it among Marines, back from patrol in Ecuador. Still, he marveled. Could Jeffers really have it down so well? Using such simple tricks to bring us together? To yank us out of shock?
How lucky. For the chain of respect and authority to be so clear at the start, leading to someone who was liked by everybody, or at least respected. No Lord of the Flies here. No collapse of being civilized. And so what if his appointed committees ignored the kids who took action at the very start. And so what if Jeffers’s major domo was the smarmy-charismatic Scott. At least they were solid committees, appointed by a man who knew and cared for everybody.
Mark glanced up to the girder beams of the gymnasium, wondering.
Are there alien monitoring devices up there? Too small for us to detect, or invisible in some other way… are they watching and scanning, to see how we manage?
The possibility that this was all some kind of Garubis experiment – a test of “larval humans under stress” – had surely occurred to others among the castaways. If so, are we doing better than you expected?
Dozens of hands reached out and Principal Jeffers touched them or traded high-fives or “flu shakes,” bonking fists, pausing to pat a shoulder or ruffle someone’s hair. Once, a girl grabbed him and he had to peel her off, gently, with a laugh.
He’s like a rock star down there.
Or maybe our Moses.
At last, Jeffers waved for quiet. Far more quickly than would have happened back home, he was obeyed. The gym was suddenly hushed. Mark looked at the tense young faces around him, rapt with anticipation and desperate hope.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming here on a week night .”
Jeffers grinned at the ensuing laughter and groans.
“I expect the teachers will agree that we can give everyone a pass on this evening’s homework assignments.”
Among the seats at half-court, Mr. Castro made a show of smacking his palm against his head at the lousy joke. Edgy teens laughed again.
It’s gonna work out, Mark thought. Despite everything. This planet may kill us, but not because we fell apart.
Only, that burst of confident optimism didn’t last. For in the last row, to Mark’s left, an adult with unfamiliar features, dressed in denim… one of the carnies, perhaps… was arguing viciously with Miss Najarro, his finger straight out between them like a knife.
It was only a few seconds, before the big man swiveled and stalked away, but with a snarl that said: this ain’t over.
* * *
Down on the gymnasium floor, levity gave way to business.
“I know everyone has worries and questions!” Principal Jeffers called, even as he held up his hands again to forestall the rumble of voices. “So, before we go to committee reports, let me address some of the most pressing problems—”
“I’m diabetic!” shouted a Latino boy in the third row, sounding more angry than afraid. “Where’s my insulin coming from?”
That set off others.
“I was having pins in my leg removed next week——”
“My mom works nights and needs me to babysit!”
“Sure, just —” Jeffers tried quelling with both hands, but that first spark ignited dozens.
“—my orthodontist—”
“—my therapist—”
“I had an audition—”
“I’m almost out of meds!”
So fast, Mark thought. He looked left and right to see if he could help calm anyone down. Miss Najarro had caught up with the carny, a wire-limbed man in Levis and a blue-and-white shirt, putting a restraining hand on his arm — which he brushed off with real force, making the teacher gasp.
“Bam, no,” Alex said, grabbing his elbow.
Principal Jeffers was offering assurances. “Anyone with a medical condition, we do have a big supply of pharmaceuticals, a registered nurse and Doc Hutnicki from the clinic across the street, now that she’s recovered from a fall.”
That might be a bit of a stretch, Mark noted. It was a veterinary clinic, although sometimes Doc Hutnicki taught in the school’s biology lab.
“—and Ms. Takka has a brand new MolecuMac3000 in her biology classroom! So with any luck we should be able to synthesize –”
“We’ll die here!” a girl screamed suddenly from somewhere to the left.
This time the interruption echoed into stunned silence … till the same plaintive voice wailed on, each word feeling like a punch to the stomach.
“We’re all gonna die in this place … and I want to go home!”
Even Jeffers was left blinking … till a sardonic voice from somewhere to Mark’s right muttered – “Get that girl some more ice cream.”
That drew smirks and cackles, breaking the tension. Then Dave McCarty countered. “Yeah, like five gallons of Peppermint Prozac.”
More snarky chuckles, though Alex murmured a low growl next to him. “That’s just plain mean.”
Principal Jeffers spread his arms wide and got help from many in the audience, who made shushing sounds.
“I promise, finding answers and hopefully a way home will be top priorities, after survival … and we will survive!” He punched the air with determination that won a weak round of applause. “Only, now let’s hear from our committees. There’s a lot to get done tonight and even more tomorrow. Everyone is needed to pitch in.” He turned to the physics teacher. “Let’s start with a report from Mr. Davis on what we know about our new home —”
Bad choice of words. Mark winced. Perhaps some castaways – had started taking up the attitude Dave McCarty avidly pioneered, absorbing the harsh possibility of permanent exile and calling it something else — pioneering. But for the rest, it was much too soon. The phrase only triggered moans of despair and outrage.
As Davis stepped forward with Ms. Takka and several students, including Dave with his precious map-scroll, a new voice rang out, this one older, angrier. “I’m not even supposed to be here! I was just driving past on Rimpau. I don’t belong here with this stupid school!”
Pudgy and red-faced in a rumpled suit, the balding man’s resentment was both illogical and … it set off a similar thought in Mark. What if Dad and I never came to Twenty-Nine Palms? What if …
The thin carny to his left stood upon the crowded bleachers, shouting in a commanding bark that carried across the gym. “I want to know who put you freaking teachers in charge!” he yelled. “You cleaned out the drugs and liquor and took most of the food! Who gave you the right?”
“Damn straight,” growled another man from the aisle below — one of the local bikers, in a scarred leather jacket. “I’m not takin’ orders from kids or their babysitters.”
Mark saw the first carny try to push by Miss Najarro. It was like a rough dance move, the man’s thin body eclipsing hers. Miss Najarro was only five-four and barely rounded top or bottom, as small as some of her freshman girls. Still, she caught at the man’s shirt and he barked one word, harsh but indistinct in all the noise.
Mark stood up.
“Sit down,” Alex said.
Most of the kids around Miss Najarro were first-year students, shrinking from the confrontation, uncertain and tense. Even the bravest sagged in relief as the carny turned away to join the man in leather, then both headed for the gym floor. Others stumbled through the packed bleachers as teenagers in their way protested.
“What were you going to do?” Alex hissed. “Punch him? How would that help?”
“She’s right,” Barry said quickly.
She is. Again. I guess.
Mark took his seat and yet his body felt tightly coiled with adrenaline, a ragged flood of dread and confidence, both dark and good, as loud as the gym around him. Somehow he tamped it down, avoiding his friends’ eyes.
The noise-level dropped as a cluster of maybe a dozen angry adults hit the base of the stairs. Principal Jeffers was facing the other direction, both hands out as if to catch an immense section of the bleachers, but Mr. Castro left his chair. And suddenly Scott Tepper gestured at the football squad. They responded swiftly, with hefty Colin Gornet in front. No longer the richest kid in school, Gornet had size and plenty of other assets.
The carnies and other rough men hesitated. So did Principal Jeffers, who turned and stared as Scott’s small army filled the middle of the floor. At the same time, Mr. Castro strode very close to the adults, talking urgently.
This could spiral out of control. Still, Mark couldn’t help feeling impressed by Scott’s poise. And envious for the loyal teammates he had at beck and call.
“What a derp mess,” Barry said softly.
Mark could only nod and grimace. It’s happening to all of us, like crazy is wired in our brains. But maybe this is as good as it gets in a rough situation, two steps forward and one step back. We’re as dangerous to ourselves as anything else might be.
“Look,” Alex said. “The bulge in that guy’s back.”
Mark followed her point and spotted the outline … a protrusion under the spine of the carny’s jacket. Probably a big knife. He hoped that was all.
Still talking rapidly, Mr. Castro gestured like a magician trying to distract attention. The history teacher and a dozen carnies and townspeople formed a triangle against the bulk of Scott’s teammates. Principal Jeffers spoke to Scott, who then turned to motion his crew back to their seats, though Gornet and another big lineman stayed on the gym floor like bodyguards.
As if by agreement, the carnies backed off, too. They retreated as far as the nearest line of seats, where they stood with their arms crossed.
“All right!” Principal Jeffers yelled. “All right, first things first!” He was pacing again, trying to involve the entire crowd. “I appreciate there are others who got grabbed up along with the school. Obviously we’ll have to work out ways to … govern ourselves that seem fair to all. Yes? Meanwhile, though, stuff does have to get done and information has to be shared. We do have some ad hoc committees who have done good work. So how about we just get on with it and all pull together?”
Nods from the crowd. A couple of the protesting adults sat down. Mark sighed. The complaining students had a less-blustery tone, more whiney, but the message from old and young was the same. I don’t like this. Make it stop. Put things back the way they were.
* * *
How do you make an interstellar adventure boring? Call up committees.
When the Security Group wanted more volunteers for patrols and look-outs, the shop guys stood up and protested. “You’re already doing nothing useful! Strutting about with flimsy spears while we’re building latrines and shoring up tottering houses.”
“We have no idea what’s out there!” Gornet shouted back.
“Yeah? And why must there be guards on the new latrines?”
“Hey, toilet paper rationing has gotta be enforced! Anyway, those rickety shit perches you built leave our butts exposed over alien jungle! Who knows what could jump and bite someone’s ass, if we don’t stand watch?”
Scott Tepper’s smooth compromise, that the guards would take turns and do some other tasks too, calmed that tussle. But what about the shell-shocked, sheltering in dark rooms? Should they also be made to work? Some shouted for tough love, getting them outside. But a vote of hands supported Ms. O’Brien, who was carefully monitoring some of the most distraught students and adults. The stricken would get another day.
Mr. Jeffers used his veto power to quash another matter. The alcohol proposal died without a vote. Though everyone knew it would be back.
The Resource Committee’s report was grim. An inventory of supplies could take days or even weeks, but preliminary estimates told what everyone already knew. Food and water would get scarce pretty darn soon. Moreover, several homeowners objected loudly to calls for sharing. One threatened to “shoot any putz kid with a clipboard who tries to get into my pantry!”
The standoff only broke when some Physics Club guys came trooping in from the dark, outside, bearing news that lifted Mark’s interest.
“Twenty-eight hours and roughly twenty minutes,” Mr. Davis announced the length of a full day, here on – we’ll need a name for this world, Mark abruptly realized. “That’s a lot longer than on Earth. Longer working days and longer nights. Also, this place seems to have a bigger axial tilt than Earth – we know because we spotted three other planets! That let us measure the angle from this solar system’s ecliptic to our… well we have a North Star, folks.”
“What does that mean?” Jeffers asked. One of the students rushed in an answer.
“It means hotter summers and colder winters!”
Mr. Davis nodded. “Seems likely.”
“Do we know which season we’re in?” A girl in the front row asked.
“No. That’ll take several days to determine, I think.”
Interesting, though not among the chief concerns. A different batch of science-types stepped up and soon had everyone leaning forward, hoping for good news. The senior biology teacher, Ms. O’Brien had once been a U.S. Navy medic, and thus far too busy, all day, dealing with crises among the human population. That left it to her junior, Miss Takka, and members of the various Bio Clubs – Future Health Workers of America, 4-H and the FIRST Genomics team — to offer up what they had learned about this world. Their report was disappointingly sparse.
“We captured some bug-like things,” the young teacher began. “And used a pole to grab some leaves. We then offered them to … offered them to …”
Stammering, she couldn’t continue. So a senior named Gracie Donner — one of the soccer-gals, Mark recalled – gently pulled the teacher aside and took over.
“We’ve got a couple of gene and chemical sifters. But they were set up for standard high school classes,” she said. “What with all their pre-sets and privacy filters, the results have been skimpy. Mostly, the damn machines keep trying to give us failing grades on a lab.” That got a couple of wry laughs.
“We’re hoping the local veterinarian, Doc Hutnicki, can help us out, since her machines aren’t ... child-proofed. But she’s recovering from a concussion she suffered when we first arrived. For now, it could take a while to reconfig our machines … to change their settings to analyze how life works here. If any of you are hackers or electronics types, we could use help.”
Barry Tang didn’t hesitate. He stood and headed forward, along with half a dozen others. Good, Mark thought. Barry needs a way to feel useful.
Gracie continued. “Thanks, guys. Meanwhile? We’ve set up some terrariums and started feeding some leaves and local fruits to some of the hamsters from the pet store. Some of the stuff they won’t touch, so I guess we shouldn’t either. Other samples, they dig right in! Still, it’s way too soon to tell if that means anything good. Even if they’re all alive tomorrow –” She shrugged.
“We need more samples. So, in the morning, some volunteers need to go down there —” from her head nod, everyone knew she meant the world below.
Dave McCarty almost leaped out of his seat, but Gracie cut him off. “I will choose a team, after this meeting ends.”
Mark and Alex shared a look. Wow. Decisive.
Equally firm were the two Vice Principals. Mrs. Swain, who also taught English, declared that the gym would become a girls’ dorm. After this meeting ended, volunteers would pass out blankets. She then added, in a firm voice, that she and some other adult chaperones planned to be old-fashioned and prudish about sex — “to a degree you’ve never seen before, except maybe in old time movies, or in books like The Scarlet Letter. I mean it girls! The stupidest thing you can do right now is get pregnant, before we know more about our lives here. If this presents a problem, come see me and I’ll listen like a big sister. But don’t try me.”
Mr. Lavallee was even blunter. The gruff, ex-sergeant served as both Vice Principal and varsity coach. He leaned on a cane to favor his prosthetic leg. “Any young man who lets instinct overcome his brain, and pushes himself onto others, without attention to consent or consequences, will face something far more than old-fashioned, from me.” And the cane came up. To Mark’s surprise, the threat was greeted with only a few muttered sneers, and those cut off swiftly, as most of the assembled students nodded.
There were other committees – a seemingly endless list of them – but Principal Jeffers could clearly see his audience was fading. Everyone suffered from a combination of physical fatigue, emotional exhaustion and delayed ice-cream letdown. Still, the tussles weren’t over. As part of some compromise worked out with Mr. Castro, the leader of the carnies, the thin man, Zach Serpa, was given the floor. He seemed calmer now, but still pulled compulsively at his hands, explaining that his people would share and cooperate … even contribute members for some of the committees, though without accepting that Jeffers had any overall authority.
He also proclaimed a territorial boundary, making the south end of the athletic field off limits to students, or to anyone else lacking permission. “We don’t want any more kids sneaking through our set-up stealing stuff!”
So they had a real grievance after all, Mark realized.
“That’s no good,” protested Bryant Marshall, owner of the Chevrolet dealership … what was left of it. He had been sitting close to Jeffers, lending support. “They’re better supplied than anyone else on this rock. They’ve got propane- or battery-powered refrigerators in those carnival trailers — full refrigerators! And mini stoves, showers and beds and extra clothes. Generators and fuel. Motors and pumps. Canvas, rope, and lumber. Barrels of junk food and drinks.”
Marshall was ignoring urgent looks from the history teacher, whose deal with the carnies seemed to unravel with every word.
“Tell me, Mr. Serpa. Is it your plan to keep all of that to yourselves?”
Fuming and short of breath, Serpa shouted. “It’s your good luck … and our bad luck … that we happened to be here for your damned Desert Carnival!”
“This is no time to let one group set itself apart –”
“Yeah? Watch us! I caught a couple of jerk-jocks standing by our corral, talking about how much meat there was on our donkeys and the llamas! I showed ’em what to expect, if they come back!”
So many were watching the spittle, flying from the grizzled carnie’s mouth, that perhaps no one else noticed his hand reaching around toward the bulge, under the denim jacket. Mark stood, preparing to leap —
— when Alex shot up and did something that took Mark completely by surprise.
“No donkeys!” She screamed, at the top of her lungs, drawing all eyes her way. “We won’t eat your donkeys! Poor donkeys. Poor donkeys. Poor donkeys …”
Amid some frantic giggles, others took up the chant.
“Poor donkeys! Poor donkeys!”
Mark had seen it before. Near murderous tension, broken by a moment of hysterical relief. Only this time it wasn’t achieved by a diplomat or soldier or teacher, but a coltish 15-year old.
“Poor donkeys! Poor donkeys!”
Alex cast him a sidelong grin, as the chant took off without any further help. A mantra of utter nonsense, soon lost to even its original meaning, as laughter mixed with sobs. And everyone knew who the ‘donkeys’ were, deserving pity for a fate that was not at all their fault.
We are the donkeys. Poor us.
Mark didn’t let his wound-up muscles relax till he saw the man in denim bring his hand back around – empty. Serpa nodded acceptance to the shouting students, attempting a stern smile, though his eyes said this isn’t over.
No, it isn’t, Mark thought. He was thinking ahead. Even if the carnies shared their supplies fairly, and even if the Garubis “gift” of this world meant there was food to be had, he knew harsh days were ahead. And donkey meat might yet be on the menu. And llama. And hamster.
And then, maybe, us.
Principal Jeffers made no effort to regain an agenda, clearly recognizing the time had come to close. Taking control again with raised arms, he simply ended on a hopeful note.
“Good night, and God bless us all.”
* * *
Even under ideal conditions, the squeeze to empty the bleachers was never pretty. Migration out of the gym was even clumsier as a majority wanted out on one side, through doors leading to the main building, where a table staffed by volunteers offered each person one rationed cup of water. A guide path of solar lanterns illuminated long lines at the makeshift latrines, though a lot of the boys headed off in the dark to one of the open storm drains, along Rimpau.
Alex held back, briefly surrounded by a few admirers who patted her on the back, or shook her hand, for defusing the tense situation. Mark watched, proud of her, but above all surprised by how unsurprised he was. Well, I always figured she was special.
Yet his gaze drifted to Gracie Donner, gathering her team of biologists and guards for tomorrow’s expedition. That’s where I belong. And yet, he held back, watching as Helene Shockley managed the long line allocating blankets. The youngest kids were handed those first. But when it came the turn of juniors and seniors, by almost silent agreement among the boys – maybe some kind of chivalry reflex learned from old movies – the guys plucked up tarps and painters’ dropcloths from the hardware store, leaving all remaining blankets for the older girls. And no one raised it as an issue.
Under the watchful eye of Mrs. Swain, some hetero couples clung tearfully before separating in opposite directions in search of someplace not too hard or cold. To collapse.
A few went the other way, including Froggi, Greg and Nick. “Meet us at our spot in twenty minutes!” Froggi said, and Mark nodded, wondering what they had in mind.
Our spot. That must be the climbing wall.
With that, the Hammar boys pushed open the wide doors at what had been the gym’s north end, letting in a current of strange air, refreshingly cool after the heat of so many bodies, yet tinged with the acid vinegary jungle aroma. At least it pushed aside the stink of a thousand filthy teenagers, with showers right in this building but zero water to spare.
Alex sent her last freshman admirer scooting toward Women’s Country, but seemed in no hurry to join that purdah. Mark told her of the rendezvous. Unless I’m mistaken, they want to organize our own dawn patrol into the forest.
“Wait!” Barry called, and Mark slowed down enough for them to regroup. Barry seemed much happier now, chattering about his long night ahead. The hackers would be issued unlimited caffeine, in hope of reconfiguring the bio-assay machines by tomorrow morning. The prospect invigorated him, until a sight abruptly rendered Barry speechless.
Stars. Unknown stars. Outside, a few meters beyond the gym lights, they seemed to swarm overhead like a sparkling wave. The clear sky, colored like gunmetal, seemed to spray hot pinpoints overhead, completely alien. Four of them seemed very close. One was a big, red ember.
“That’s a planet,” Barry said, almost whispering. “Dang, I can make out a disk, bare-eyed.”
Mark gaped like a child. He stumbled as the pressure of more students made them step to the side.
I wonder if we’re even in the Milky Way anymore.
“Look. A moon!” Barry pointed toward the west, where a narrow crescent hung above the horizon, at least twice the apparent width of Luna. “They said it was close, but man, it’s big.”
“So many stars,” someone else gasped nearby, and these were desert kids, accustomed to decent skies. Mark noticed crowds gathering where the astronomy club had set up many instruments, at the far end of the plaza, chattering with more enjoyment than anybody ought to, if they’d just been kidnapped across a galaxy.
Yep. We are a really varied species of ape.
“There’s another planet over there,” Alex said, pointing in a different direction. Mark turned. Then screaming began somewhere in the twilight behind them.