Colony high, p.2
Colony High, page 2
“Why’d you do that!”
“You were asking for bruises. What’re friends for?”
“Well,” Barry ran his fingers through his mussed hair. “You know what I meant! Anyway …” His eyes suddenly widened. “There!”
“Huh?”
“Over there, beyond Olympic!” Barry shouted. “I see one!”
“See what?” Alex asked, releasing Mark’s neck just when he was closing his eyes, ready to admit it felt good. By the time he looked up, both of his friends were pedaling ahead, past the alley where denim-clad bikers always hung out after tearing around on the dunes. Mark had to chase after, swerving to avoid a muttering bag lady’s junk-laden shopping cart, barely catching his friends near the minimart on Main. Barry jabbed a finger north along Bing Crosby Boulevard, toward the Marine Corps base and a vast expanse of desert beyond.
“I don’t see —”
“The van!”
Mark blinked. Indeed, there was a van — dark blue, with windows tinted opaque gray. An oval area along one side had been painted over raggedly, without much effort to match shades. A tarp covered some kind of bulge on top.
“So? I don’t see —”
“That color and model, I recognize it from the fleet at Cirocco Labs! There’s at least a dozen — maybe more — cruising all over the place. Must’ve been in a real hurry. See how they just slapped some paint on the company logo? And I’ll bet you that blanket’s hiding sensors. Maybe some kind of a search radar!”
Barry looked so excited — and happy — that Mark hesitated to doubt him aloud. Especially when Alex cast a warning glance, shaking her head.
Is this going to be like a few months ago, when Barry kept yattering about giant Russian transport planes, landing in the middle of the night?
“Haven’t either of you heard all the helicopters cruising overhead the last few days? I can spot two of em right now, from where we’re standing! See that glint near the horizon?” He swiveled. “And there beyond the RV park, over Joshua Tree. They must be looking for something!”
Mark and Alex shared another glance. Neither of them had to say it. In Twenty-Nine Palms, the sight of copters flitting about was as surprising as spotting your own shadow. “An exercise,” Mark ventured. “Hotshots from Pendleton —”
“My parents have been nervous about something, the last few days,” Alex murmured. “When I asked about it, they went all weird on me and clammed up.”
Mark shot her an accusing look. You too?
Then something occurred to him.
I haven’t seen Dad in two days.
Oh, that alone wasn’t troubling. It happened several times a year. A note on the fridge, plus an envelope with some cash. No instructions. Just implicit confidence that Mark could be trusted to take care of himself for a while.
Only now he found himself worrying. Could it be an alert?
With so many hot spots in the world, units were always being called up and sent to far places that he never heard of, fighting in little scraps that never got called ‘wars.’
He didn’t recall anything in the news that seemed threatening. No looming crisis. But folks at the nearby base — and at Cirocco Labs — might be involved with something on the horizon, acting long before the media or public got wind of it.
“I joined the Math Club for a while, when I was a freshman,” Barry said, his voice cracking slightly. “I still know a couple guys. We play chess now and then.”
“So?” Mark just knew he was going to regret asking. Then the connection dawned on him …
… those silly rumors. Oh, no.
“So,” Barry finished. “You guys want to find out what’s going on?”
It turned into one hell of a Thursday night.
When Mark got off work around seven, he went home hoping to find his dad there, smelly and unshaven from a three-day field trial, but happy to tell his son the unclassified parts over coffee and an omelet. Something that would explain eerie vans and nervous helicopters, even the bizarre rumors sputtering around town, putting it all down to scuttlebutt and normal Defense Department weirdness.
But no. Dad wasn’t home.
Instead, Mark found Alex and Barry waiting for him by the battered old Cherokee. Barry held a steaming bucket of drumsticks from Chick-tish-n-Protie. Alex must have already let herself in the house, to fetch keys to the jeep. She tossed them at Mark, as soon as he parked his bike.
“You don’t waste time,” he commented.
“Life’s short.” It pretty much summed up her philosophy.
What could he do but shrug and climb into the driver’s seat? These two had been his best friends since moving to this desert oasis. They had nursed him through those grueling Chemistry and Trigonometry midterms, making it hard to refuse, even though his body ached and there was school tomorrow.
“Here, swallow this,” Alex ordered, handing him a pill – a Motrin, he saw – and a water bottle. Heck, did the girl think she was his mother? But Mark tossed back the muscle relaxer, which seemed a good idea. He shrugged off the bottle.
There’s a quiz tomorrow in pre-calc, but Alex drilled me on that chapter during lunch and I ought to get my usual B. Mr. Castro will be holding a discussion on the Thirty Years War, though I guess I know the subject well enough to say something in class, after watching that Tim Burton film about it. Though if I studied a bit more …
He pictured Helene Shockley, occupying the seat behind him in World History, always wearing some pheromonic scent that would fill his nostrils and send his head spinning. At times, Mark fantasized winning her over with some clever quip or insight in Castro’s class. If there were even a chance of impressing her —
Forget about it. She’s with Scott.
In fact, Mark had to admit, school was under control. He could afford a little week-night adventure.
“Where to?” He asked, starting up the engine.
Barry pointed east. “The dunes. Near Skull Rock. That’s where Chloe said they found something, before she clammed up tighter than a trillionaire’s wallet.”
Cruising in that direction down Highway 62, they swiftly left behind both the town and the sprawling Marine Corps base to the north that hosted Cirocco Labs. To their right, Joshua Tree National Park rolled by, with its namesake plants resembling spiky warriors by the light of a waxing gibbous moon. A scattered army of those shadowy figures stretched across the plain toward dun-colored hills.
The dry air was cooling down quickly from today’s oppressive heat. Mark always liked this part of the evening, here in the high desert. That is, he would have enjoyed the drive if Barry weren’t constantly reaching forward from the back seat, tapping Mark on the shoulder and shouting.
“There! Another helicopter …” he pointed urgently, “and one more off by the mesa!”
Mark overcame his irritation to glance that way. And yes, there were aircraft out there, crisscrossing above the sand and scrub. So? Helicopters and drones and such … next to Twenty-Nine Palms Air Station? Ooooh.
Though … yes … they were aiming searchlights downward, moving at low altitude, in what did kind of look like a search pattern.
Alex reminded him – twice – about the turnoff to Skull Rock. I would-of remembered, he growled inside while turning off the main highway onto a barely-graded dirt road, easy enough for the Cherokee to handle.
We seem to be headed right for one of the helicopter search grids.
“Suppose they really are searching for something. Do you think it’s wise for us to be –”
Alex shouted and Mark yanked the wheel hard, briefly blinded by headlights ahead, looming suddenly around a sharp bend. A pickup truck veered by, much too close, while five or so rowdies hollered and screamed from the back. Something hurtled toward Mark and he slammed the brake just in time for a beer bottle to shatter on the hood of the jeep, instead of his face.
“Jerks,” Alex muttered, with endearing understatement. “I guess this means we’re not the only ones chasing rumors. The only civilians, I mean,” she added, glancing toward one of the throbbing helicopters.
Mark pushed the clutch and re-engaged the transmission in low, taking the curve slowly… and pulled aside again for yet another pair of headlights. This time it turned out to be a little Geo Metro – one of the solar-charged conversions that really shouldn’t be out after dark; they’d be lucky to make it back to town. Whining and complaining in the grit and dust, it pulled up alongside the Cherokee and the window came down, with an unhealthy, grinding sound. The driver leaned out – a girl Mark had seen around TNPHS, with stringy, braided hair, glasses, a great figure – Isabel something…
“There’s a roadblock ahead,” she said in all-business tones, though with a nervous edge. Mark couldn’t make out her companions, cramped together in the dim cab. “They’re turning kids back and taking down names.”
“Thanks. Though can you tell us what you think is going —” Mark started asking, but the Geo was already speeding off, spewing grit in its wake. He turned to look at Alex and Barry. “Maybe we better think about —”
Alex agreed by both nodding and pointing ahead of them, where a trio of vehicle lights could be seen heading their way, weaving along the road’s sinuous path. From the pattern of head-lamps and spot beams, he could tell they were Newts – New Utility Vehicles, capable of switching from wheeled travel to charging cross-country on a cushion of air. You didn’t want to argue with guys driving stuff like that.
His passengers made no complaint about the failure of the mission as Mark turned around and headed back to the highway.
Only when they were approaching Twenty-Nine Palms again did Barry finally speak up, apparently back in chipper, hyper-curiosity mode once again.
“All right, then. That pretty much confirms that something big is afoot! Now let’s go to our natural habitat and hunt for the truth. I know just where to start. Rimpau Avenue.”
Piloting the Cherokee’s stiff old suspension toward the west end of town — where the supposed visitor from space was rumored to be hidden — Mark thought. If there’s any truth to this, it’s the worst-kept secret since the Vice Principal got a hairpiece.
He kept passing cars full of teens — some from TNPHS and others from Mojave College. It felt more like Saturday than a school night.
Alex waved at some guys wearing helmets and pads, who zipped along on gleaming pairs of powered sneaker skates — the latest fad — slower than cars, but a lot more fun and great for shortcuts whenever traffic got dense.
“Hey ’Cardo. Sup!” Alex shouted as one of them came swooping by to slap a friendly palm on the Jeep’s hood.
“Hey girl,” the wiry boy answered as he spun around once then gave her fist a friendly punch. “Seen it yet?”
“It?”
“You know… it! Some of us are high on the waiting list. We’re all taking bets whether it’s real.”
“No way, man!” said another skater, barely missing a minivan that swerved into the left turn lane. Mark liked these guys, but they were crazier than kava-chewers.
“I bet it’s a rubber puppet,” the second one sneered. “Like that robotic thing, last Halloween.”
“Yeah? Well Benito Gomez got close last night and he says —”
“Benny’s mind is torqued from too much gaming, man. Can’t tell what’s real anymore. Come on, what’re the odds?”
“Yeah but whatif? Hella sick. Deathbed sick! They’re only letting a few visitors at a time and you gotta have cash. But I’ll put in a good word for you, Alex. Maybe get your friends in —”
A warning bloop from a police car interrupted the skater, who shrugged with a blithe grin. Spinning 360, he did a Parcour tracer’s vault over the boulevard’s center divider and was gone in a flash of turbo-luminescent rims.
“Get us in where?” Alex shouted after him, in vain. Cops didn’t even bother chasing the X-guys anymore. They could dart through an intersection and vanish like smoke.
Something’s up, all right, Mark thought as he followed Barry’s hushed directions along one dismally similar suburban side street after another. The whole town feels it.
Or at least the part that was tuned into coolstuf — the mesh of interests approved by those between fifteen and twenty. You didn’t have to log into Bellybook or some avachat room to get a ruling on what’s hot or not. It splattered like rain across percept-space, a spray of half-sentence twops scrolling down specs and wrist-pads. It murmured into earpieces and pen-cells and swarmed over the foldscreens or pullscreens of pocketphones.
Okay, this is way, way cut, Mark admitted, grudgingly. Whatever it turned out to be — probably a hoax — somebody deserved cred for the town’s best mobilization since he came to TNP. Even better, the world of adults appeared clueless. So far – at least here in town — this whole thing seemed limited to the young.
I take that back, Mark thought suddenly, pulling the jeep over to one side. Just ahead, a police car had parked along the very block where Barry said the vice-president of the Math Club lived. Two officers were just getting out, slamming doors.
With a hiss, the black-haired boy pointed.
“Look. There’s two of those disguised Cirocco vans, just pulling up!”
“This is creepy,” Alex said. A crowd was gathering, mostly teens, milling about and peering at the house in question.
“What do we do? Take a look? Join the crowd? Someone outside may know —”
A fist rapped hard on the right-rear door. Barry yelped as a face suddenly pressed against the glass, fogging it with hasty breath.
“Tang! Thank god ’n dog it’s you. Open up!”
“What in —” Mark didn’t have time to object as Barry let in the figure, swaddled under a cowled windbreaker.
“Drive!” the boy croaked, his visage pale and twitchy.
“But —”
“Get out of here! Then I’ll explain.”
Against his better judgment, Mark put the car in gear, turning carefully so as not to attract attention. His uninvited passenger sighed, quivering as he looked back at the commotion.
“Alex and Mark, this is Tom,” said Barry. “Tom Spencer. That was his house with the police car in front.”
Alex reached around, offering her hand to the nervous sophomore. “What’s up? Want something to drink? We have Pepsi. Or a drumstick?”
Good move, Mark approved, offering a frightened person something as commonplace as food. Though he kept blinking rapidly, the Spencer kid seemed to calm a bit as he slurped a can of soda.
“They… came less than an hour ago. Just busted right in and took him!”
“Who came? The police? Didn’t they just arrive?” Alex kept her voice scrupulously calm as the boy shook his head.
“Jocks! It was Colin Gornet and some of his football pals!” In the rear-view, Mark saw Tom take another long slurp, before resuming his rapid babble. “They came by for the first time last night, polite as could be. Paid me fifty dollars to let them in. Just wanted to have a look, they said. I should’ve listened to Jamul. He told me not to! But fifty will help buy that new hacking algorithm I wanted all year. So I let ’em in. Idiot!” He kicked the door next to him, reverberating the Jeep’s rickety cab.
“Chill, Tom. You say they paid you to let them look at something. What did they pay to see?”
But he was chattering now, telling it his own way.
“By this morning, it seemed like every kid in town knew! People kept sneaking up to my back door after school, offering more cash for a look at Xeno. It felt cool for a while, till Gornet and his bunch came back. They crashed right in and grabbed him!”
“Who did they grab?”
Tom Spencer shook his head.
“Then it got worse! My parents heard us yelling as Gornet left. They saw Gavin’s black eye and found the mess downstairs… so they called the cops. I couldn’t stop them!”
Mark shook his head. Clearly this dude had a hierarchy of fears. Invasion by thieving athletes was intolerable — but not half as bad as alerting the world of adults.
“All right,” Alex asked, her voice glassy-smooth, to keep the frantic boy calm enough to communicate. “You’re saying Gornet and his pals came barging in and grabbed someone. But who, Tom? Who did they take?”
Mark found himself fervently hoping that Tom would just shut up.
It’s just a hoax that got out of hand, he hoped. It’s got to be.
Tom swallowed hard before answering.
“They took our xenoanthropoid.”
“Your —?”
Barry Tang translated. “It’s Greek, meaning something like ‘a manlike being from beyond.’ Pretty awful Greek, actually. I guess they wanted something less cliched than alien or extraterrestrial.”
Tom sniffed.
“We spent days coming up with that! Anyway, it’s a damn good thing we were the ones who found him. Well, Chloe Mendel did, while she was performing one of her routine comet-searches. The IR scanner on her 22-inch wide-field telescope spotted something coming in fast.”
“Nobody at the base saw it?”
“Her correlator noticed something all those Cirocco brainiacs missed!” Tom snorted, both proud and contemptuous. “I guess because it had all the color values of a falling meteorite. Anyway, a fresh carbonaceous chondrite is worth heaps, so Chloe called me and Jamul and Jorge and Lauren to check the fall site, out in the south-eastern drifts. Only when we got there, we found…” The boy’s hands shook as he gestured, shaping something rounded, almost as if he could still see it, right in front of his face.
“… we found a space capsule of some kind, half embedded in one of the dunes! Debris nearby. A panel, like some kind of escape door had popped off…”
“No way!” Barry sighed, in a tone that was almost reverent and hushed. He prompted. “Then —”
“Then we found him… wandering around on the sands.”
Mark shook his head as he drove, silently wishing.
Please make it stop.
Oh, part of him shared the excitement, a natural yearning for something exceptional to happen. Anything more interesting than the ennui of semi-rural American teenage life, warehoused in a high school routine that often seemed meant just to use up time, keeping youths occupied at an age when biology made them want to move! To experience and have adventures. In other eras, frontiers and unknown lands used to beckon. Today?
