Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars (13 page)

It was very late, but I wasn't feeling particularly tired. I couldn't think of anything useful to do, so I eventually wandered into the hall bathroom, thinking I might brush my teeth.

I clicked on the light and froze.

Venetio was there. One of his blue hands was clutching an open vial of cloudy liquid.

The other was holding my toothbrush.

Neither of us moved or spoke for at least a full minute.

Finally, Venetio cleared his throat.

“They asked you to be the new chancellor,” he said.

“That's right,” I said slowly.

“That means I'm supposed to infect you with this”—he nodded to the vial—“for Pluto. But I-I don't…”

“You don't want to,” I finished for him.

He shook his head miserably.

“No, I don't want to.”

“What is it?” I asked, honestly curious.

He shrugged. “A serum. Some kind of rodent gene,” he said. “Hamster or something. I didn't ask. I didn't really want to know.”

I nodded and gave a small sigh of relief that I had avoided becoming the first-ever stegosaurus-human-hamster hybrid. At least for the moment.

“So,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You didn't really win your ticket from a radio station, did you?”

Venetio shook his head.

“No! I mean, yes, I won the ticket. But I didn't have any way to get to Mars. The ship I borrowed didn't really belong to my mom—it belonged to the BURPSers. I'm not one of them—I didn't lie to you about that. But I guess you could say I'm working for them. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Well, I wasn't really supposed to have to do anything. They put me in an old busted ship and dropped me off right next to yours. The same way they stuck stowaways on every ship headed to Mars that they could. Just in case. They gave me this…this serum stuff and said there was a tiny chance I might have to use it on somebody. But I never thought I'd actually have to go through with it. I mean, how was I supposed to know they'd nominate a dinosaur kid to be chancellor?”

“I see your point,” I said. I did. Sort of.

“Plus, they told me they had a cure for the gene-ing,” Venetio added. “That they could reverse it. So I figured, what was the harm? I would get to go to the game. And on the small chance I ended up having to gene somebody, it could be undone. No harm, no foul. But now—” He hesitated.

“You heard everything my grandfather and I were talking about?” I asked.

Venetio nodded.

“I can't do it,” he said. “Not now that I know you. And not now that I know they can't undo it.”

“Um…thank you?” I mumbled, not really knowing what else to say.

“But I also can't let them vote to ban the Plutonians from the ISF,” he added, looking quite conflicted. “I can't do that either.”

“Why?” I asked him. “I mean, I know you like soccer, Venetio, but why do you care so much about this? Enough to almost gene me?”

“Well, for one thing, my mom works for the ISF,” Venetio explained, putting my toothbrush back on the counter. “If Pluto gets kicked out, she'll lose her job. Things aren't great on Pluto right now. Who knows when she'll be able to find a new one?”

“Oh.”

“Plus, if they do this, who knows what they'll do next? Mars hates us. And all the other planets always follow their lead. If Mars decides they don't want to trade with us anymore or let us visit their planet anymore, the other planets will decide the same thing. Mars isn't going to stop until Pluto, and all the Plutonians, are all alone. Way out on our icy little rock with nowhere else to go.”

“Oh,” I said again, and for some reason, all I could picture was Orlando sitting by himself at that big, empty table in the cafeteria.

“I know it's wrong for the BURPSers to go around gene-ing people,” he continued. “But it's also wrong for the Martians to treat us this way, just because they don't like us. Everybody's wrong. How am I supposed to pick a side when everybody is wrong?”

I took a deep breath.

“Maybe we need to make our own side,” I suggested.

“Sure,” Venetio scoffed.

“I'm serious! Listen, I know you were passed out when Dr. Marsh told us everything. But do you know the BURPSers are planning to gene all of the Martians?”

He nodded.

“Maybe some of them deserve it,” I allowed. “But most don't. And maybe the BURPSers deserve to be punished, but not every Plutonian does. There are way more good Martians than bad ones, and way more good Plutonians than BURPSers. But nobody's fighting for them. Maybe it's time someone did.”

“Like us?” Venetio asked, sounding doubtful.

“Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling way more sure of myself than I had in a long time. “The BURPSers cooked up this whole plan with Sunder Labs because they were assuming that the Martian Council was going to vote to ban the Plutonians from the ISF. But what if I make sure that doesn't happen?”

“How are you going to do that?” Venetio asked.

“I'm going to be chancellor, that's how,” I said. “After the game tomorrow, I think I can get the Martian Council to change their minds. If I can do that, then maybe the BURPSers will back down. Maybe—”

Venetio shook his head slowly.

“They're not going to wait for the vote. It's the game, Sawyer. It's all about the game.”

• • •

“It's simple, really,” Venetio said after I had gathered my grandfather, Mrs. Juarez, and Sylvie in the living room. Elliot had not responded to my knock on the door—he probably was still mad at me. “If they want to avoid getting gened, the Martians have to win the soccer game tomorrow.”

“I don't get it,” my grandfather said, and I was glad I wasn't the only one. “What does the soccer game have to do with the entire planet getting gened?”

“The BURPSers are planning to gene the Martian water supply, sir,” Venetio explained. “There are a dozen BURPSers disguised as Kuiper Kicker fans on the planet right now, just waiting to do it. But they have a problem.”

He held up his wrist with the metal tracking bracelet.

“Every Plutonian in Mars is wearing one of these. The BURPSers have to get away from their escorts to do the gene-ing, but if all of them just suddenly run out of wristband range, the alarms will go off and the police will be on them in a second. They need a distraction. Something that the police will be even more worried about than them.”

“Like the soccer game,” I said.

Venetio nodded, but Sylvie was shaking her head.

“If the game is just a distraction, then why does it matter who wins?”

“Because the first phase of the gene-ing is going to take place during the toast,” Venetio said.

“The toast at the end of the game?” I asked. “The one the losers have to make to the winners?”

Venetio nodded.

“Each team plans a drink for the toast, just in case they win. The Martians are planning to use Nutri Juice,” he reminded us. “I don't know what the Plutonians brought, but the BURPSers added a little something extra to it. The losers have to drink whatever the winners pour for them. If the Plutonians win, the entire Martian team will get gened. With Plutonian DNA.”

“Right there in the stadium?” Sylvie asked, her eyes wide with shock. “In front of everyone? People are going to flip out.”

“That's the idea,” Venetio said, looking a tad embarrassed. “If there's chaos in the stadium, the Martian police will be too busy dealing with it to notice the BURPSers sneaking off. By the time they calm everybody down, it'll be too late. The water will be gened. And anybody who drinks it will be gened too.”

“That'll be everybody,” my grandfather muttered. “The whole planet. Just like Otto said.”

“Geez,” I muttered, picturing an entire planet of newly blue, confused Martian-Plutonians.

Sylvie was glaring at Venetio.

“You knew about this? And you're just telling us now? When it's too late to do anything about it?”

Venetio wrung his hands. “Look, I know it sounds bad. I do. But Sunder Labs told the BURPSers they had a cure. Nobody thought this was going to be permanent.”

“But now we know the cure doesn't work,” Mrs. Juarez said, absentmindedly touching one of my grandfather's growing plates.

Venetio nodded. “That's why the Martians have to win tomorrow, ma'am. If they win, they won't have to drink the Plutonian toast. And the BURPSers won't get the distraction they need to gene everybody else.”

“Why risk letting them play at all?” I asked. “Why don't we just call off the game? We could just tell Chancellor Fontana and—”

“No way,” Sylvia said, looking at Venetio. “Remember when they tried to cancel the '09 Finals, because of a sandstorm on Jupiter? There were riots.”

“So?” I asked. “I mean, riots aren't great, but wouldn't that be better than everybody in Mars getting gened?”

“No, Sylvie's right,” my grandfather put in. “If the BURPSers are looking for a distraction, a riot would be a good one. Maybe even better than waiting until the end of the game. If a stadium full of people are suddenly running around like crazy, the police would never notice a dozen BURPSers leaving their escorts.”

“There were riots after the '14 Finals too,” Mrs. Juarez said thoughtfully. “When the Martians won on penalty kicks after Tycho Brawn got fouled—”

“Took a dive,” Venetio corrected her.

“Whatever,” Mrs. Juarez continued, just as Sylvie opened her mouth. “My point is, a questionable call could cause a riot too. If the Martians win on penalty kicks again or in some other controversial way—”

“Like sudden death,” Venetio interrupted. “The Plutonians hate that rule. If the Martians win during sudden death, there will be a riot for sure. Plutonians are convinced the Martians have figured out a way to rig it.”

“That's ridiculous!” Sylvie protested. “Sudden death is random. It's programmed into the game clock!”

“OK.” I cut in before Venetio could respond. “So the Martians have to win in a totally clean, non-sketchy way. But the main thing is, they have to win. How can we make sure that happens?”

Venetio, my grandfather, Mrs. Juarez, and I all looked at Sylvie.

She shook her head.

“Nope.”

“Sylvie—” I began.

“It's not like they need me anyway,” she retorted. “There's no way Mars is going to lose tomorrow. Tycho Brawn even came out of retirement to play!”

“If that's true,” my grandfather said, “then the BURPSers will have planned for that. Wouldn't it make sense for them to have a backup, some sort of insurance, to make sure the game goes their way?”

We all looked at Venetio, who spread his hands.

“If they do, I haven't heard about it. I'm just a sleeper cell, remember? It's not like they told me everything.”

“What about the vote?” I asked. “Does the vote matter at all?”

“It matters,” Venetio assured me. “If the Martians vote to ban Pluto from the ISF, a lot of Plutonians will be upset. And a lot more of them might start listening to the BURPSers.”

“So it sounds like we need to do two things,” my grandfather summed up. “We need to secure an uncontroversial Martian victory in the game tomorrow, and we need to get the Council to vote against the Plutonian ban.”

“I have an idea about the vote,” I said. My inkling had grown leaps and bounds in the last hour.

“And the game?” Venetio asked, giving Sylvie a hard look. “If she won't play, then we're going to have to make sure the Martians win some other way—a way that won't cause riots.”

“How are we going to do that?” Mrs. Juarez asked, looking at me.

They were all looking at me.

I sighed.

“I have no idea.”

• • •

The room that Elliot and I shared was dark. There was just enough light coming in through the enormous windows for me to see a long lump stretched out on Elliot's side of the bed.

“Elliot,” I said without turning the lights on. “I really need to talk to you.”

The lump was silent.

“Look, I know we're fighting. I know you're mad. But you're my best friend. And there's a lot of stuff going on right now.”

The lump did not respond.

I sighed.

“Please, Elliot. You don't have to stop being mad at me. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to. But will you listen to me? Just for a minute?”

The lump still didn't say anything. And now I was starting to get mad.

“Elliot. Come on!”

I flipped on the light.

He wasn't there. The lump was just a twisted mess of covers. But there was a folded-up piece of paper on my pillow. It said:

I officially resign from your entourage.

“
Welcome to the 2016 Summit Friendship and Goodwill Game!
”

The deep, booming voice was at odds with the tiny-even-for-a-Martian Martian who sat behind the microphone. He was in a see-through booth that adjoined what Chancellor Fontana assured us was the largest private box in the arena.

Even from behind the box's thick glass window, I could hear the cheering outside. The stadium was packed. And from up here, the crowd looked like a red-and-blue splatter painting. There were no Home or Visitor sections. There couldn't be, since all the Plutonians had to stay within ten meters of their Martian escorts.

Every Plutonian except Venetio, that is. His wrist cuff had been deactivated that morning (by Chancellor Fontana). But nobody else knew that. Not even Sylvie, who sat glumly beside him in the seats closest to the window. My grandfather was there as well, sitting off to the side and sweating heavily underneath a large trench coat. His plates had grown larger overnight. The cure was wearing off even faster now. I had tried to convince him to stay home and take care of himself, but he had refused.

The only person missing was Elliot. He hadn't come back to the apartment that morning. Not knowing where he was felt like someone was punching me in the stomach. Repeatedly. But there was nothing I could do about him right now.

I had a planet to save. Two, in fact. And Elliot had made it clear that he didn't want any part of it.

“
Please give a big Martian welcome to your very own Red Razers!
”

The cheering outside intensified. I didn't even have to look down to see the line of red-jerseyed Razers run onto the field behind Coach Kepler. I had a perfect view of them on the Jumbotron immediately across the stadium from the box.

“
And please welcome our distinguished visitors, the Kuiper Kickers from the dwarf planet of Pluto!
”

“Dwarf planet. I guess he couldn't resist throwing that in,” Venetio said, groaning. Outside, a mixture of cheers and boos erupted through the crowd as a line of blue-jerseyed Plutonians trotted onto the field.

Ms. Helen threw the announcer a miffed look. He shrugged and spread his hands in a
What?
gesture, then pointed to me.

“
And now the moment you've all been waiting for…
”

Ms. Helen handed me a microphone, and Chancellor Fontana shoved me in front of a banner that read
Nutri Nuggets: Proud Sponsor of the Red Razers. Fear the Red!

Before I could protest that this was hardly proclaiming my neutrality, a Martian with a headset pointed a camera at me and suddenly my face appeared on the Jumbotron.

“
You know him as the Dinosaur Boy! Visiting us all the way from Earth, please welcome our newest summit chancellor, Sawyer Bronson!
”

There was a round of applause from outside, far less then for either of the two soccer teams. I couldn't stop staring at my giant face on the screen. I looked like I was about to be sick.

“Sawyer!” Ms. Helen hissed, then pointed frantically to a teleprompter, which was typing out words just underneath the camera lens.

“Uh, welcome?” I said.

It came out squeaky, so I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Welcome!”

Ms. Helen jumped behind the camera and smiled a grossly exaggerated ear-to-ear grin. I tried to copy her, but the part-dinosaur on the Jumbotron still looked pretty nauseous. I couldn't help it. All fifty thousand people in the stadium were staring at me. The very thought made me want to spew my breakfast salad all over the camera lens.

I tried to ignore my stomach and concentrate on the words Chancellor Fontana and Ms. Helen had written out for me that morning.

“On behalf of the Martian Council, I'd like to welcome you to this very special Friendship and Goodwill Game. I see today not as a rivalry between two teams, but as a coming together of two extraordinary groups of people. I am confident that the friendship and camaraderie we have cultivated in the past weeks will remain alive and well, regardless of the outcome of today's game. Or of today's vote.”

I squinted over to the other side of the box, where the twelve members of the Martian Council all sat together at a long table. With the exception of Chancellor Fontana, they had all come out of hiding just that morning. And most of them still looked a little shocked to be out and about.

Ms. Helen started motioning for me to wrap it up.

“So, let's have a clean and fair match!” I finished, with a pointed look at Chancellor Fontana. It had been her job to “strongly advise” Coach Kepler to avoid any controversial plays. The Martian players didn't know about the BURPSers' plan, but they had wholeheartedly agreed to do what they could to avoid any rioting.

One of the camera Martian's assistants began to pull on a large crank. The front window opened, just enough for me to stick my arm out. I couldn't even lean my head out to see what I was doing. Luckily, one of the outside cameras was still broadcasting me on the Jumbotron, so I was able to use that to see where the red button on the top of the game clock was.

I pressed down on the button, and the clock gave a sharp click.

“
Let the game begin!
”

• • •

I've seen soccer games on TV before, and honestly, the Martian-Plutonian game wasn't that much different.

Aside from the fact that half of the players were blue and the other half had antennae.

There was a lot of running back and forth. A lot of pushing and shoving, some of which was apparently legal and some not. The referees—one Martian, one Plutonian—gave out handfuls of cards for various violations. One time, the refs themselves nearly came to blows over whether a Martian player had intentionally tripped a Plutonian. The two coaches had to break them apart and each side donated a thirty-second time-out so that the refs could cool off enough to keep going.

“
The Martians are starting their attack again! It's Jakosky, passing to Banerdt. Banerdt to Radha. Radha back to Jakosky, then over to Zubrin. Zubrin to Brawn for the shot…and it's wide. Plutonian ball.
”

During the times when an attempt on goal did not appear to be imminent, the announcer filled the empty airtime by giving the crowd background on the players.

“
And wearing number forty-two for the Razers is Tycho Brawn. Who, of course, is famous for scoring the winning goal for the Martians in the '14 Finals.
”

“That's him?” I asked Sylvie, leaning toward the window as the outside camera broadcast a live shot of number forty-two trotting down the field. He was bald and bearded. And also quite tall for a Martian; he towered over every other player on the field.

“Yup,” Sylvie said without enthusiasm.

“Is there something weird about his nose?” I asked, squinting.

“There was a botched gene-ing attempt a few years ago,” Sylvie told us. “Tycho's nose turned into a beak. He had it removed. But the replacement didn't really take. He wears a plastic nose now, but it looks a little bit weird. He doesn't like to talk about it.”

“Forget the nose,” Venetio said, frowning down at the field. “Does anyone else think he looks sort of…tired?”

Before either Sylvie or I could respond, the announcer's voice boomed through the box again.

“
Tycho Brawn is probably Mars's best hope for a goal today. Let's hope he picks up the pace a little bit!
”

On the field, the bearded Martian giant stopped in mid-stride and rested his elbows on his knees.

“Not just me then,” Venetio said.

“That's the great Tycho Brawn?” I asked, incredulous. I could feel my heart sinking. “That's the guy we're counting on to win it for the Martians?”

“
This is definitely not the lightning-fast Brawn we know and love! Come on, Martians. Let's perk him up with a cheer! Fear the Red! Fear the Red! Fear the Red!
”

The Martians in the crowd picked up the chant. Tycho Brawn eventually got it together and rejoined the action, but he stilled looked like he was moving at about half the speed of the other players.

I looked at Sylvie. She shrugged.

“Maybe he's conserving his energy for the second half?” she guessed, sounding doubtful.

“Well, the good news is that the Plutonians aren't looking much better,” Venetio pointed out, as one of the players in a blue jersey went to kick the ball, missed, and fell flat on his back in midfield. Muttering quietly under his breath, he added, “I never thought I'd be happy to say that.”

“Sylvie,” I said urgently. “It's not too late. Are you absolutely sure that you—”

“I told you,” she said, her voice getting all growly. “I'm. Not. Playing.”

I opened my mouth to argue with her, but I was interrupted when Mrs. Juarez walked into the box holding a large, covered tray.

“Food's here!” she announced gaily.