Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars (10 page)

I woke up to a sharp pain in my arm.

“Ow!” I cried. I tried to wrench my arm away, only to find that it was strapped down to the hospital bed I was lying on. My other arm, both legs, and my tail were all tied down with cloth restraints as well. There was something like a giant rubber band around my middle, carefully threaded through my plates, that was keeping me pinned down in a weird position, half on my side.

My space suit had been removed and my shirtsleeve had been rolled up. The scientist from the elevator was looming over me, aiming an alarmingly big hypodermic syringe at my exposed arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “I missed again. Fifth time's the charm though, right?”

I could have sworn he grinned as he stabbed the needle into my arm again.

This time he didn't miss; he slipped the needle into my vein and taped it into place, just like the time Dr. Bakker had taken my blood to test me for anemia.

“Ah. You're awake.”

The triceratops head from my hazy, pre-fainting vision appeared over the scientist's shoulder, just as the bed started moving underneath me. The top part went up and the bottom part tipped toward the floor until I was pretty much straight up and down. The straps holding me in place kept me from sliding onto the floor.

Now that I was upright, I could see we were in the same laboratory we had ran into, right before we had been knocked out. I couldn't move my head very much, but I could see that the other three beds were occupied by my grandfather, Elliot, and Venetio. They were still unconscious.

Where was Sylvie?

“You see, Asaph? They're coming around. It shouldn't be long now.”

The scientist from the elevator took the needle out of my arm, slapped a Band-Aid over the dot of blood on the inside of my elbow, and left the room. Now that his head was out of the way, I was able to get a good look at the triceratops. Good enough to see that he wasn't a full triceratops.

The hands sticking out of the sleeves of his white lab coat were human. His head was human too, except for the two horns above his eyes and the slightly larger horn where his nose should be. There was also a huge, bony frill framing his head. It looked sort of like an oversized Elizabethan collar. Or the plastic thing (which my dad called the “cone of shame”) that Fanny had to wear once so she couldn't lick her stitches.

Triceratops Man was facing me so I couldn't tell if he had a tail or not. But I was guessing he did. His eyes, small and beady, were focused on me. But it didn't seem like he had been talking to me.

I craned my neck to see over his shoulder. Mr. Juarez was sitting at one of the lab tables. His helmet was off now. And an even shorter Martian was propped up on a stool beside him with her head down on the table.

Sylvie.

“If
he's
awake, then why isn't
she
awake?” Mr. Juarez asked Triceratops Man, patting Sylvie worriedly on the head, right between her antennae.

“It shouldn't be long now,” Triceratops Man repeated. “She'll be awake in moments.”

“Or not,” I couldn't resist adding.

Mr. Juarez looked up in alarm. Triceratops Man narrowed his already really narrow eyes at me.

I shrugged. I had recognized the smell beneath the lemons.

“Good Girl and Good Boy sprays are unpredictable on hybrids,” I informed them. It was even written on the can. And Sylvie and I had proved it the time Principal Mathis sprayed us with it when she tried to kidnap Elliot.

Triceratops Man turned his back to me—he did have a tail! No spikes though—and picked up something from the table that Mr. Juarez and Sylvie were sitting at.

He turned back to me and held up a tiny, midnight-blue bottle.

“Good Boy and Good Girl sprays are Amalgam Lab products. This is Good Riddance spray. One of ours. The base formula is, er, similar. But we've eliminated the hybrid variability and made a number of other improvements. I'm sure you noticed the lemony-fresh scent.”

Before I could even think of how to respond to that, there was a loud groan from the bed closest to me.

My grandfather stirred, pulled for a second against his restraints, and then groaned again.

Triceratops Man pushed a button and brought my grandfather's bed up like mine so he could look him square in the face.

“Ah, Gavin,” Triceratops Man said. “So glad you could join us.”

I wasn't sure I'd ever heard anyone use my grandfather's first name before. And it sounded weird, especially coming from a dinosaur in a lab coat. But my grandfather didn't seem to think it was strange that this hybrid knew his name.

“Hello, Otto,” my grandfather said grumpily.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Gavin. I assume this little stealth mission of yours means you're not going to take me up on my offer of employment?”

“As I've told you before,” my grandfather said, “I will not work for you. Not now, not ever.”

“Never hurts to keep asking,” Triceratops Man muttered and then turned away to bring Elliot and Venetio's beds to standing positions. They were both awake and wearing identical expressions of wide-eyed confusion.

I looked questioningly over at my grandfather.

“Dr. Marsh—Otto—and I used to work at Amalgam Labs together,” he explained. “Then he left to start Sunder Labs. I refused to leave with him.”

“A poor choice,” Triceratops Man—Dr. Marsh—interjected. “Which makes me very curious why you are here now.”

My grandfather glared at him.

“Why do you think?”

Behind Dr. Marsh, Sylvie woke up and sat bolt upright on her stool.

“Dad!” she exclaimed. She looked overjoyed for a split second before she glanced around and saw what was going on. “Dad? What…? Why…?”

“Don't worry, Sylvie,” Mr. Juarez said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It's OK. Everything is going to be fine.”

“But—but—what is he doing to my friends?” she demanded, throwing his hand off and standing up a little bit shakily.

“I'm just getting to know them better,” Dr. Marsh assured her.

She turned, did a slight double take at his frill, and then squinted up at something over my head.

I craned my neck as far as it would go and noticed for the first time that there was a flat-screen TV monitor up there. Actually, there were four, one above each of our beds.

“Such fascinating friends you have, Ms. Juarez,” Dr. Marsh said, following her gaze to my monitor. “A juvenile Earthling-stegosaurus hybrid.”

He walked on, coming to my grandfather's bed. “An adult Earthling-stegosaurus hybrid, with his dinosaur genes suppressed.”

He came to Venetio's bed and paused again.

“And a juvenile Plutonian. I'm sure he'll be most useful.”

“You listen here,” Venetio said angrily. “I have a game to get to, and I'll do whatever it takes to—”

There was a blast of air and a burst of lemon scent as Dr. Marsh aimed the tiny blue bottle directly in Venetio's face. I quickly closed my mouth and stopped breathing, as Venetio's eyes rolled back into his head and his chin drooped down to his chest.

“I've always like Plutonians better when they're unconscious,” Dr. Marsh admitted. “He'll be fine in about an hour or so,” he assured us before moving on to Elliot's bed.

“And finally, an Earthling. Human,” he said. “A basic, run-of-the-mill, thoroughly uninteresting human.”

“Hey!” Elliot exclaimed, looking offended before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to be breathing. He quickly closed his mouth again.

Dr. Marsh shrugged.

“Three out of four isn't too bad, I guess.”

Sylvie narrowed her eyes at the hybrid scientist.

“Let. Them. Go.”

Dr. Marsh looked surprised.

“Oh no, I couldn't possibly. They are much too valuable as research subjects. Well, except for the human. I've no interest in him.”

“Hey!” Elliot muttered through pursed lips, trying not to open his mouth this time.

Dr. Marsh waved a hand in his direction.

“I'd happily let that one go. As a favor to Asaph's daughter.”

“Why would you want to do a favor for my dad?” Sylvie asked. And when Dr. Marsh only smiled that odd triceratops grin at her, she turned to her father.

“You said you were coming back for me,” she spat at him. I could tell she was trying to sound mad, but she also sounded a bit like she was about to cry. “When I went to Earth with Mom, you said you were going to come and get me. But you never came. Why didn't you?”

“I explained it all in my note,” Mr. Juarez told her. “Didn't you get it? I specifically told your mother to tell you—”

“—that you were being held against your will!” Sylvie finished for him. “I know, I read it! Parts of it anyway. You also told me not to worry. But come on, Dad, of course I'm going to worry when you say something like…”

She trailed off. Mr. Juarez was shaking his head sadly. And my brain, which probably should have caught this minutes ago, started to ask itself why he wasn't wearing handcuffs. Or leg restraints. In fact, there was nothing to indicate that he was being kept as a prisoner.

“No, Sylvie.” He sighed. “What I actually said was that I wasn't being held against my will. I told you not to come after me.”

Sylvie's mouth dropped open as Mr. Juarez exchanged a look with Dr. Marsh.

“The truth is, Sylvie, I didn't want you to come looking for me. I didn't need you to find me. Because I wasn't kidnapped and I wasn't lost. I'm exactly where I want to be.”

“But…but…” Sylvie stammered. “But, Dad, this is a science lab. What are you doing in a science lab?”

Mr. Juarez cleared his throat.

“Dr. Marsh and I—that is to say, Sunder Labs and I—have a common interest. And we all thought it would be better if I remained here underground until our plan is complete—”

“Plan?” Sylvie demanded. “What plan? Dad, you're a restaurateur! You're not a scientist!” She turned to Dr. Marsh. “Don't you know he's not a scientist?”

Dr. Marsh chuckled but said nothing.

“I'm not here to do the science,” said Mr. Juarez. “I'm what's called a backer.”

“A what-er?”

“You see, Sylvie,” Dr. Marsh interjected. “Sunder Labs is built on a foundation of ideas. Brilliant, groundbreaking, universe-changing ideas. But it takes money to bring ideas to life. And that's where we were coming up a little short.”

Sylvie drew in a sharp breath.

“My father is giving you money?”

“Yes, I am,” Mr. Juarez said. “I've invested a great deal of money in a specific Sunder Labs program called EGM.”

“EGM?” my grandfather interjected. “You're not still trying to do that, are you?”

“Trying?” Dr. Marsh asked with a chuckle. “Why no, Gavin. We're not trying. We're doing.”

“EGM?” I asked and exchanged a puzzled look with Elliot.

“It stands for elective genetic mutation,” Dr. Marsh explained, sounding excited. “It's an idea I had way back when I was still at Amalgam. It involves using a virus to introduce specific, targeted genetic material into a subject.”

“A virus?” I asked, thinking hard. The word had triggered something in my brain. Suddenly, I was back in Ms. Filch's class on the first day of fifth grade. And the voice of Dr. Dana from that lame Amalgam Labs video was echoing in my brain:

…we may never know exactly how the dinosaur-human hybrid serum was created. Or exactly who was responsible for injecting that serum into a virus and for putting that virus into the ice-cream maker in the laboratory's cafeteria…

I felt something very, very cold fall sharply into the pit of my stomach. And it wasn't ice cream.

“The dinosaur-human hybrids,” I said breathlessly, looking over at my grandfather in horror. “Us. Dr. Marsh created…us?”

My grandfather nodded.

“Well, Amalgam Labs turned down my formal request for human subjects,” Dr. Marsh said with an irritated snort. “They left me no choice. But I had every faith in the safety of the serum. Why else would I have included myself in the sample group?”

“Maybe because you thought the process would be easily reversible?” my grandfather suggested. “Which turned out to be incorrect.”

Dr. Marsh coughed into his human hand.

“True, it didn't work out exactly as I had hoped. The cure took longer to work out than I had anticipated. Luckily, I had you to help me with that, Gavin.”

“Wait a sec,” I cut in. “If you know about the cure, then why didn't you take it? Why do you still have triceratops parts?”

“Oh, I never wanted the cure for myself,” Dr. Marsh said, smiling as he stroked the edge of his frill. “You'd be amazed at the mileage I get out of this. Investors see me, and they open their wallets. And the money really starts flowing when I tell them that the dinosaur-human hybrids are only the beginning.”

My grandfather's head snapped up.

“What?”

“Oh, the hybrids are old news, my friend. That was years ago. The real market is in subtle, targeted gene-ing. You want to be taller? There's a gene for that. Smarter? Faster? There're genes for those too. And we can sell them to you. And not only that, but we can now manipulate the genes themselves. We can turn them on, turn them off, tone them down, amp them up—you name it. We can fine-tune anything you want, fix anything you don't like about yourself.”

My grandfather was shaking his head sadly.

“Otto, that's…that's terrible.”

“Why?” Dr. Marsh demanded. “Why is it terrible? Why shouldn't everybody be exactly what they want to be? Provided they can afford it, of course.”

“It's going too far,” my grandfather said patiently. “You're messing around with things you don't understand completely. And besides, who are you going to sell it to? Gene-ing is illegal in Mars. Even elective gene-ing.”

“It won't be,” Dr. Marsh informed him. “Not under the Plutonians.”

My grandfather was staring at Dr. Marsh. It looked to me like he was trying to figure out if the triceratops hybrid was insane or not.

I was wondering the same thing.

“Say again?” my grandfather asked with a glance over at Venetio, who was still out cold.

“You're right about one thing, Gavin,” Dr. Marsh continued. “Now that we have a product that everybody wants, we need a market where we can legally sell it. Mars is ideal—a centrally located planet within easy shuttle distance from every other planet in the galaxy. But the current population is a bit…resistant to the idea of genetic alteration.”

“The current population?” Sylvie asked suspiciously as Mr. Juarez started to fidget in his chair.

“The Plutonians, on the other hand, are far more open-minded about the possibilities of EGM. And coincidentally, they are looking for a new planet.”

“But what about the Martians?” Sylvie asked.

“Oh, the Martians will still be here,” Dr. Marsh answered. “They'll just be…changed.”

“Changed?” I asked, and the bad feeling I had when we first saw Mr. Juarez came back with a vengeance.

“Yes. My dinosaur parts may have gotten us the investors we needed to fund EGM research, but we're going to need something more dramatic to take it to the next level. Something that will leave no doubt that when it comes to gene-ing, Sunder Labs can do anything. Even, say, turn a whole planet of Martians into Plutonians.”

My mouth dropped open.

“You can't do that!” Sylvie exclaimed.

“Don't worry,” Mr. Juarez assured her hurriedly. “They'll all get changed back. Once the Martian Council has agreed to turn the government over to the BURPSers, Dr. Marsh is going to turn them all back into Martians. Like nothing ever happened.”

“But then the BURPSers will be in charge of Mars?” my grandfather asked.

“Exactly,” Dr. Marsh said, sounding pleased. “The Martians can stay safe in their underground world, while the Plutonians colonize the surface. But it'll be the BURPSers who run the planet. Their first order of business will be to legalize gene-ing. And their second,” he said with a glance at Mr. Juarez, “will be to outlaw Nutri Nuggets.”

Sylvie's eyes bulged.

“That's why you're doing this?” she asked her father, as her lower lip started trembling. “Because of Nutri Nuggets?”

Mr. Juarez cleared his throat and looked straight at his daughter.

“Those Nutri Nuggets are putting my restaurants out of business,” he said darkly. “Those stupid, disgusting nuggets are destroying everything I've worked for. Say what you like about Plutonians, they are much too into food to ever allow such nonsense on their planet. On a planet full of Plutonians, my restaurants won't just survive. They'll thrive.”

Sylvie looked gobsmacked.

Mr. Juarez spread his hands.

“What was I supposed to do? Allow my entire life's work to crumble right before my eyes? The planet changed. I had to either evolve or die. I had no other choice.”

“Everybody has a choice.” I spoke up. “What you're doing is horribly wrong!”

“Oh, I wouldn't be too down on what we're doing here, Sawyer,” Dr. Marsh scolded. “After all, you have your grandfather to thank for it.”

“That is a lie, Otto!” my grandfather hissed. “An absolute lie. I will not allow my grandson to think I am responsible for any of this—”

“Oh, but you are, Gavin. It's the cure, you see. The one you and I created together at Amalgam. It turns out that the cure is the key to unlocking EGM.”

• • •

I was looking straight at my grandfather when Dr. Marsh said that, so I saw when all of the blood drained out of his face at once.

“You mean to tell me that you've based all of this”—my grandfather waved a hand around, indicating the lab—“on the cure?”

“That's right,” Dr. Marsh said proudly. “The cure helped us to develop EGM. And most importantly for the Martians, it'll be the cure that turns them back to normal once the planet changes hands. Easy-peasy, like nothing ever happened.”

My grandfather started muttering to himself under his breath. I caught a couple of words, several of which I had once been grounded for saying out loud. When he finally got hold of himself, he looked severely at Dr. Marsh.

“Otto, there's something you need to know. EGM—”

Dr. Marsh held up his hand.

“Spare me your moral judgments, Gavin. I've never understood your eccentrically human hang-ups about doing the right thing. You're half dinosaur, you know. It's time you gave in to your baser instincts—”

Dr. Marsh continued talking. And Sylvie started yelling at her father.

“I can't believe I wrote a whole paper about you! I even called you my ‘hero'! What a waste!”

The two distinct strings of conversation were starting to make my head hurt. Particularly because there was a third conversation taking place entirely in my own brain. And those words were the loudest of them all:

It's never a good sign when the bad guy tells you his plan.

Dr. Marsh had told us what he was planning to do. Maybe not all the details—I still had no idea how he would possibly gene an entire planet. But he had told us he was going to do it. And that meant he had no plans to let us go.

If we were going to get out of here, we were going to have to get ourselves out.

I pulled uselessly against my restraints and looked around the lab. It was full of lab equipment. Tons of things that were sharp, breakable, and possibly even explosive. But only if I could get to them. And I really didn't see how I was going to do that when I couldn't move more than an inch or two.

Dr. Marsh had left the bottle of Good Riddance spray on the table, just out of Sylvie's reach. She would be able to get it, but only if she stood up and slid a few feet down the table. And there was no way she'd be able to do either of those things without Dr. Marsh or her father seeing.

“You've got to listen to me, Otto,” my grandfather was thundering. “There are things you don't know—”

“Fewer and fewer every day!” Dr. Marsh proclaimed.

The closest thing to my bed was the emergency eyewash station. Right next to that, there was a fire extinguisher, an oxygen tank, a flame-retardant suit, and a giant red button that said PRESS ONLY IN EVENT OF MAJOR CHEMICAL SPILL.

I had no idea what would happen if that button got pushed. But I was willing to bet it would be noisy, dramatic, and disruptive. Which all seemed like pretty good things right then.

Unfortunately, the button was a good six feet away from my bed. Which was about five feet and ten inches farther than I was currently able to reach.

My grandfather was still trying to get a word in edgewise with Dr. Marsh.

“If you would just shut up for two seconds—”

“You know what your problem is, Gavin? You're too narrow-minded. You're so focused on the minutiae that you never see the big picture—”

I pulled on my stupid restraints again. My spikes would have cut through them in two seconds. The way my tail was tied down, my tennis balls were actually just barely within reach of my right hand. But the spikes themselves were too far away and tied down at too weird of an angle to cut anything.

But I could reach the tennis balls, I thought. At least one of them. Possibly two.

Moving very slowly, I stretched my right arm as far as I could. My fingers closed around the nearest ball. After a few seconds of fumbling, I was able to work it off the spike.

It came off into my hand with a soft
pop
.

I looked around worriedly. But no one had heard.

The ball was losing air fast, so I quickly took aim and fired it toward the MAJOR CHEMICAL SPILL button.

It hit the word SPILL, an inch below the button, and bounced harmlessly to the floor.

I froze, certain everybody had seen that. After a second, I looked around.

My grandfather and Dr. Marsh were still yelling at each other. Elliot and Mr. Juarez were watching them argue, and Venetio was still unconscious.

But Sylvie had seen my throw. She nodded encouragingly at me and inched slightly closer to the spray bottle.

“…no sense of genetic destiny…” Dr. Marsh was saying accusingly.

I reached for the second tennis ball. It was farther away. My fingertips barely brushed the top of it. I strained with all of my might, so hard I was afraid I was going to rip my wrist out of joint. But I kept straining until I got all four fingers around the ball and was able to use my thumb to force it slowly upward.