Dinosaur Boy Saves Mars (4 page)

I couldn't stop staring at the gun in my grandfather's hand. It was shiny and metallic and had swirly designs etched all over it. The handle was ivory and it had a spinning chamber for the bullets. It looked like the kind of thing you'd see in the Old West, in the hands of a grizzly old sheriff. But definitely not on a spaceship.

The creature was staring at the gun too.

“I am not a BURPSer,” it said indignantly.

“On your feet,” my grandfather ordered in the same scary tone.

As commanded, the creature executed an awkward (and, frankly, quite painful-looking) wiggle that brought its legs down out of the cupboard. As soon as it had its feet on the floor, it raised both hands, including the one still holding the Snickers bar, over its head and stood to its full height. Which brought it roughly to my chin.

It was built like a human: two arms, two legs, and so on. He—because now that he was upright, I could tell he was a he—probably could have passed for a human, although a short one, if he hadn't been blue. His hair was bright blond and stuck straight up out of his head. There was a chocolate smear on his chin, and he smelled very strongly of the odor that had preceded him out of the cupboard. His gray eyes grew very wide as Roland took a step closer.

The blue kid—he looked about my age, but it was hard to tell with all of the blue—threw the half-eaten candy bar so it landed right in front of the polar bear. Roland picked up the bar, gestured to Harriet, and the two of them retreated a short distance away to enjoy their snack.

The creature raised his hands back to surrender position and then gulped when he saw that my grandfather was still holding the gun on him.

“I am not a BURPSer,” he repeated.

“Prove it,” my grandfather ordered.

“My name is Venetio Lowell, um, sir,” he said, pronouncing his name like Ven-ee-shee-O. “The ship I, er, borrowed is very old and I got trapped in Earth's orbit so I hitched a ride on yours to get me going again, and wow…” He caught sight of me, and his eyes grew even wider. “Um, what are you?”

“I'm not a what,” I told him, bristling slightly. I was used to people doing a double take when they saw my plates and my tail, but this tiny, blue person hardly seemed in a position to be startled by it. “I'm a who. I'm Sawyer.”

“Course—course you are!” Venetio said with an attempt at a laugh. He glanced nervously over at the polar bears for a moment, then back to my grandfather. “I really do apologize for sneaking onboard, sir. But I'd been drifting for days and days, and yours was the only craft I saw, so I didn't have much of a choice.”

“You're a stowaway?” Elliot asked, sounding thrilled by the idea.

“Er, yeah, I suppose so,” Venetio said, with a shrug of apology. “But only because of dire necessity. I'm no BURPSer!”

“But you are a thief,” my grandfather pointed out, nodding over at the bears, who were licking chocolate off their paws.

“I didn't mean to take it,” Venetio said sadly as his stomach growled. “But I ran out of food, and when you left the ship, it was just sitting there on your chair…” He trailed off, looking vaguely ashamed, then drew himself up straight. “But I am not a BURPSer!”

“What is a ‘burpser'?” I finally asked. And in spite of the tension of the room, I distinctively heard Elliot stifle a giggle. “I mean, it's not what it sounds like, is it?”

“‘BURPS' stands for ‘Brotherhood United for the Restoration of Planetary Status,'” my grandfather explained. “Its members are called BURPSers. They are a radical Plutonian organization that formed after Pluto was reclassified as a dwarf planet.”

“Oh, B-U-R-P-S.” Elliot puzzled out, then guffawed. “Ha! That's funny!”

Nobody else laughed.

“Actually, after they figured out what their name spelled, they changed it to ‘the Plutonian Restoration Society.' The ‘PRS,'” Venetio put in. “The old name kind of stuck though. But I am not one of them.”

“You are quite obviously a Plutonian,” my grandfather pointed out. “What are you doing so far from home?”

“I was bound for Mars, sir. But like I said, I had some trouble with my ship, so I attached to yours and climbed in through one of your service panels. I was only going to stay long enough to maybe, er, borrow a bit of fuel. But then I heard you tell one of the polar bears you were headed to Mars, so I thought I might just stay—”

“In the cupboard?” my grandfather cut in.

Venetio shrugged.

“It's a good deal more comfortable than my ship, sir.”

He smiled affably at each of us in turn, and I found it hard not to smile back.

“Um, can I put my hands down now?” he asked.

“If you're not a BURPSer,” my grandfather pressed him, ignoring his request, “then why are you trying to get to Mars?”

“Why? Why else? For the game!”

“What game?” my grandfather asked.

Moving very slowly, the Plutonian lowered one hand, reached into the breast pocket of his bodysuit, and pulled out a folded piece of paper the size of an index card.

“Sawyer,” my grandfather said. “Check it out.”

I took a deep breath and approached the Plutonian, trying to act like I assisted my grandfather in holding aliens at gunpoint every day. When I got close enough to take the ticket out of his hand, I saw beads of sweat collected on his blueish forehead.

“Can I please put my hands down?” Venetio repeated and looked quite relieved when my grandfather nodded.

The ticket said:

The term “Red Razer” seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.

“The rematch!” Venetio exclaimed, looking very excited. “You know, Pluto versus Mars? It's the first time we've played the Razers since the '14 Finals!”

I heard Sylvie draw in a breath. She stepped up behind me and peered over my shoulder at the ticket.

“How did you get this?” she asked, and I was surprised at the coldness in her voice. And the very particular way that she said the word “you.”

“I won it!” Venetio said proudly, narrowing his eyes at Sylvie. They were almost exactly the same height. “From a radio station. I correctly named all of the Kuiper Kicker strikers who have ever scored goals in intergalactic tournaments.”

“All of them?” Elliot asked.

“Well, there aren't really that many,” Venetio admitted. “We don't score that often. But I really think this could be our year! If—”

“That's why you're here?” my grandfather interrupted, lowering the gun ever so slightly. “For the game? It's nothing to do with the summit?”

“The summit?” I asked, as Venetio shook his head vigorously.

“I'm not interested in politics, sir. I'm just here for my team.”

He unzipped the front of his suit to reveal a well-worn jersey with
K2! KUIPER KICKERS!
emblazoned on the front.

My grandfather lowered his gun slightly.

“How old are you?” he asked. “And where did you get your ship? You said you borrowed it?”

“I'm eleven,” Venetio answered. Then he gritted his teeth. “The ship belongs to my mom. She's going to kill me when I get home. But it'll be worth it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime game, and I just can't miss it, sir. You understand?”

My grandfather lowered his gun completely.

“All right, Venetio,” he said. “We'll bring you along. Call your mother and tell her you're OK. But if you cause any trouble—”

“I won't,” the Plutonian assured him. Then he turned to me and held out his hand. “My ticket please?”

After a nod from my grandfather, I handed it back to him.

Venetio cupped it briefly in his hands, then folded it reverently and placed it back inside his breast pocket. He smiled at all of us again. I went to smile back, but found that I couldn't. A chill had come over me.

I had just remembered why the name “Red Razers” was familiar.

It was the name of the Martian soccer team. And the last time I had seen it, it had been written on a key chain. A key chain that held the key to the portable classroom where Principal Mathis had kept twelve of my classmates, including Elliot, prisoner. Until Sylvie and I had rescued them.

A second chill came over me. I did my best to shake it off as Venetio turned and settled himself into one of the leather armchairs.

“Ahhhh,” he said, closing his eyes. “Much more comfortable than the cupboard.”

My grandfather had to put down the gun to pick up his iPad, but it was still within easy reach on the seat next to him.

He caught me looking at it and grinned.

“Not exactly what you were expecting to see on a spaceship, I suppose?” he asked.

“I guess not,” I said. Although after the polar bears and the surprise Plutonian, I wasn't sure what I expected anymore.

My grandfather picked up the gun and twirled it around his hand once like a gunfighter.

“It may not be cutting edge,” he admitted, tucking it into his pants, just underneath the back flap of his jacket. “But it does the trick. I've done some cool modifications on it. Plus, it qualifies as an ‘historical artifact' as opposed to a ‘weapon,' so it's much easier to travel with.”

“What's the ‘summit'?” I asked suddenly. “You asked Venetio if that was why he was going to Mars. What is it?”

My grandfather waved his hand dismissively in the air.

“Oh, that's what I was referring to when I mentioned the local politics,” he explained. “It's just a bunch of Martian politicians getting together to decide on something. Very boring. Nothing for you to worry about. But there's always a lot of media at these kinds of events and the Plutonians, especially the BURPSers, like to use these occasions to make a stink. Just to remind us all that they're still sore about being considered a dwarf planet.”

I gave our stowaway a sideways glance.

“Are they dangerous? The BURPSers, I mean.”

“Well…” My grandfather considered this, as he scratched the back of his neck. “They did try to blow up Neptune once. It didn't work,” he added hastily as Elliot walked up to us.

“Um, Dr. Franklin, how long before we get to Saturn?” he inquired. He looked excited. And because I know him so well, I could practically see every
Twilight Zone
episode running through his brain at once. “Will we have to go into cryogenetic freeze? Will time go by faster on Earth so we can meet our great-great-grandkids when we get home? How do we go to the bathroom? Will we have to do exercises to counteract the effect that prolonged zero gravity has on muscles?”

“We should arrive in about eight minutes,” my grandfather told him gently. “So we probably don't have to worry about, well, most of those things.”

“Oh,” said Elliot, looking deflated.

“But the bathroom's just over there if you need it,” my grandfather added, pointing to the wall directly behind us. It looked like all of the other wood-paneled curves, except that it had a male-female sign on it, just like the ones on our bathrooms at school.

“Oh,” said Elliot.

Looking massively disappointed by the normalcy of it all, he set off toward the bathroom door.

• • •

I was still not willing to try to cram my dinosaur butt into one of the chairs. So I sat back down at my spot on the floor by the window. Harriet was there too. And when she noticed me shifting around on the floor, trying to find a more comfortable position for my tail, she moved over a little bit, giving me room to spread out my four tennis-balled spikes.

“Thanks,” I said.

She grunted. Earth was no longer visible in the window, but her eyes remained locked on the dark portal all the same. They looked sad again.

“So polar bears are going extinct?” I asked. Then I swallowed, worried that this wasn't exactly light conversation.

“Apparently so,” she said with a sigh. “Our numbers have been dwindling for some time, along with the ice, so I can't say that I'm shocked.”

“Hmmm,” I said thoughtfully, recalling the Amalgam Labs video I had been forced to watch in homeroom at the beginning of this year. How many dinosaur-human hybrids had Dr. Dana said there were? Several dozen? That wasn't very many. I wondered if that meant I was endangered. Or possibly headed for extinction myself.

“I'm sorry,” I told her, meaning it. “That totally stinks.”

“Yes, it does.”

After a moment's pause, the polar bear spoke again.

“Thank you for saying that. Most people… Well, let's just say that most people don't care about anything unless it's personal to them. That's the whole problem with being endangered, you see. No one takes it personally until it's too late, and by then, there aren't enough of us left to do anything about it.”

“I can see the problem,” I muttered. “Um, can all polar bears talk?”

I couldn't resist asking, even though I suspected it might make Harriet mad. So I was relieved when she cocked her head to one side and gave me the nearest possible thing to a polar bear smile.

“Of course we can, love. It's just that we have so little to say to humans.”

• • •

A few minutes later, we landed on the roof of Noah Station 2 on Saturn.

A shuttle was waiting to take Harriet and Roland to the northern part of the planet. Where, my grandfather said, the simulated Arctic Circle environment would be perfect for the bears.

My grandfather went down the gangplank to talk to the shuttle pilot, while Harriet and Roland climbed lumberously to their feet and stretched.

“Good-bye, dear,” Harriet said to me, and I thought she sounded a bit more cheerful than she had a few minutes ago.

“Good-bye, Harriet,” I said, fighting a very strong urge to give her a hug.

She and Roland were halfway down the ramp when Sylvie ran after them.

“Wait!” she called. As she ran, she dug one hand around in the front pocket of her sweatshirt. When her hand emerged, it was clutching a fistful of partially melted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

She put the candy into one of Harriet's hairy paws.

“I told you I smelled something,” Roland growled.

Harriet breathed in the smell of the treat with a satisfied grunt.

“Thank you, Sylvie,” she said. “I do hope you find your father.”

“I hope you like your new planet,” Sylvie said back.

Moments later, we blasted off. From the portal window, I watched Noah Station 2 and the surrounding forest fall away. And I thought I saw a small, crested head on the end of a long, gray dinosaur neck rise gracefully above a clump of greenery to watch us fly away.

But I might have been imagining things.