PAPERBACK
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ISBN 0-439-07031-7
Copyright ©1999 by Katherine Applegate.
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc.
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Printed in the U.S.A. First Scholastic printing, July 1999
1 The author wishes to thank
Laura Battyanyi-Wiess for her help in preparing this manuscript.
For Bill Battyanyi And for Michael and Jake
My name is Jake.
Just Jake.
My last name doesn't matter.
Where I live and go to school don't matter, either.
What matters is that we're in a war, fighting for the survival of the human race.
You're thinking Yeah, right. That's okay. I know-I probably would have said the same thing once.
No way. Not a chance. If it's true, then where are the troops storming the beaches? Where are the bombs? Where's the battlefield? The RPVs and cruise missiles?
Well, it's not that kind of a war.
2 The battlefield is wherever we are, we being my friends and I. We are animal-morphers, given the ability to absorb DNA by touch and then morph into that animal. It's an incredible weapon, the kind that both dreams and nightmares are made of.
Ask Tobias, who stayed in his red-tailed hawk morph longer than the two-hour limit and now spends his days catching and eating small mammals.
Or check in with any one of us in the small hours between night and morning, when the nightmares come, the nightmares of twisting bodies and mutating minds.
Like I said, this is not your standard-type war.
We're the whole army, the six of us. We get some help from the Chee, but they are incapable of violence, so when it comes to the down and dirty, we're it. Us, alone, against an alien empire that has already terrorized the galaxy.
Yeah, I know. Nice odds.
Most of us learned to fight the hard way in a deadly, on-the-job-training-type deal.
But some of us had a head start, like my cousin Rachel, who loves it all. And Ax, whose full name is Aximili-Esgarrouth-lsthill, warrior-cadet and younger brother to Elfangor, the An-dalite who gave us the power to morph before he was murdered by Visser Three.
3 I know, sounds like bull, right? Sounds like maybe I need to spend some time in a rubber room.
But it's true. Every now and then the crazy becomes real.
And this is not a clean war, if there is such a thing. I mean a war like World War II, where thousands saw the wrongs being committed and stood up to correct them. Where you attacked an enemy you could see, an enemy who wore a uniform and came right back at you, guns blazing.
This isn't that kind of war at all.
The Yeerks are more subtle than that. They aren't predators, they're parasites. They don't want to destroy humanity, they don't want to make big piles of bodies, they need our bodies in one piece to continue their invasion.
See, they're basically slugs. Parasites. No arms, no legs, no face. Blind.
That's why they need host bodies.
They slither into your ear, seep into the crevices of your brain, open your memories.
And you're still inside yourself while it's happening, trapped, helpless, begging for the nightmare to end.
Only it's real. And it doesn't end.
You want to warn people and you can't make the words come out. But the Yeerk in your head can hear them. It can hear your pitiful cries, your
4 impotent threats. It can hear you beg, Please, please leave me, please get out of my head, please. . . . And it can feel you slowly surrendering even the pretense of resistance.
The Yeerks are everywhere, using their involuntary human hosts to move freely, to recruit new members into their cover organization called The Sharing with promises of good, clean, wholesome family fun.
They're the ultimate enemy.
We've identified a few of them, though.
Our assistant principal, Mr. Chapman.
My best friend Marco's mother.
My big brother, Tom.
I know how the guys fighting in the Civil War felt, North against South, brother against brother.
Living with the dark, ugly fact that if you met your brother on the battlefield, he would kill you.
Unless you killed him first.
I know the real Tom is still inside himself somewhere, raging against the Yeerk holding him hostage, begging for someone to save him.
I know because I was infested once by the same Yeerk who'd first infested Tom before his body had been turned over to a new Yeerk. I had access to its memories, so I saw how Tom had been dragged, screaming, fighting, and finally pleading to the Yeerk pool to receive his slug.
5 I was saved. Tom was not.
But it stays with me, that memory. It always will.
So will the battles. Win, lose, or draw, they're chaotic clashes full of pain and rage. And when the fighting's over and the adrenaline drains away, you're left exhausted and sick, with way too many memories.
My grandpa G - "G" for great-grandpa - told me something once, way before I ever could have understood what he'd meant.
My family had driven eight hours to visit him in his cabin in the woods. He and I were sitting on the dock at the lake, watching the fish snatch mosquitoes off the water's glassy, mirrored surface.
And it was so quiet.
Quiet enough to make me wish I was home with the TV blasting and my dog Homer gnawing on a rawhide chew.
I was about to leave when Grandpa G said, "You know, I see myself in you, Jake. You've got an old soul."
An old soul? Was that supposed to be good or bad?
He never said. Just gave me a small, kind of sad smile, and looked back out over the lake.
I hadn't known what he'd meant then, or why he'd said it. I don't know, maybe he saw my fu-
6 ture, somehow. Because now I was old. You see too much pain and destruction, you get old inside. It's one of the by-products of war.
I'm the unofficial leader of the Animorphs. I send us into battle. When things go wrong, when we get hurt or have to run for our lives, that's on me, too.
I'm not complaining. Has to be done. You know? Someone has to make the calls. A good leader has to make tough, informed decisions. Recognize his soldiers' special strengths and use them accordingly. Fight to win with the knowledge that he may die trying.
But most important, a leader won't ask anyone to do anything he wouldn't do himself.
That one came home to haunt me.
Because in three days, my brother Tom was either going to kill or be killed.
And it was up to me to decide.
7 L came around the corner after school and saw a taxi parked out in front of my house.
My mother shot across the porch, suitcase banging against her knees, and hurried down the sidewalk to the cab.
What the . . . ?
My mom didn't take cabs. Nobody around here did.
Everybody had cars.
"Mom!" I yelled, jogging over. "What happened?"
Because something had definitely happened.
I mean, I've seen my mom sniffle at Save the Children infomercials and Hallmark cards, but I
8 can't remember the last time I ever saw her really cry.
But she was crying now.
Something must have happened to Tom.
Or to my dad.
My knees went weak and wobbly.
Funny, how even when your whole life has shifted into a daily Twilight Zone episode, there are still some things that can make you panic.
"I left you a note on the fridge, Jake," she said, hefting her suitcase into the trunk and slamming it shut. "My flight leaves in an hour and the traffic -"
"Mom, what happened?" I blurted.
My voice was high and shrill, not exactly the voice of a fearless leader, as Marco would have pointed out, had he been there.
"Oh." She blinked away fresh tears. "Grandpa G died. His housekeeper, Mrs. Molloy, found him this morning. I'm meeting your grandparents and we're driving out to Grandpa G's cabin to make the funeral arrangements."
"Grandpa G's dead?" I echoed, trying to wade through the emotions whirling around in my head.
Grandpa G. Not Tom. Not my father.
"Yes. His poor heart just gave out," she said.
"You're going to the cabin?" I said. "What about us?"
"You'll be coming out as soon as your father
9 clears his work schedule," she said, touching my shoulder, forcing a brief smile, and sliding into the backseat. "He'll tell you about it. Everything will be fine. Make sure your suit is clean. I'll call when I get to Grandma's. I gotta go, honey."
She slammed the door and waved.
I watched as the cab disappeared around the corner.
Now what?
I headed into the house. Checked the scrawled note stuck under an apple magnet on the fridge.
Yeah. Grandpa G was dead.
According to Mrs. Molloy, who'd talked to the doctor, his heart had stopped while he was putting jelly on a slice of toast. He'd never even gotten a chance to eat it.
I shivered.
I'd cared about Grandpa G and now he was gone, and my family was smaller.
I didn't like that.
The kitchen door burst open. Tom stormed into the room.
"And I'm telling you, Dad, I can't go!" he snapped, tossing his books onto the table and scowling at me. "What're y ou looking at?"
"You're home early," I said, surprised.
My father plodded in, weary, harassed, and closed the door behind him.
10 "So are you," I said, glancing from him to Tom. "Did Mom tell you guys about Grandpa G?"
"Yes," my father said. "I was hoping to get here in time to take her to the airport but the traffic was terrible. I saw Tom walking home and picked him up."
"Did you know we're supposed to go out to the cabin?" Tom demanded, glaring at me like it was somehow my fault.
"Uh, yeah," I said cautiously, trying to figure out what his problem was. "So?"
"So, Tom's already informed me that he doesn't want to leave his friends to attend his great-grandfather's funeral," my father said, looking at Tom, not me. "However, he doesn't have a choice. We're going. All of us."
"When?" I said, feeling like I was missing something important. It was there but I just couldn't grab it.
"We're driving up Saturday morning," my father said.
"Dad, I can't," Tom insisted. "The Sharing's expecting me to help out this weekend. I gave them my word!"
"Well, you'll just have to explain that something more important came up," my father said. "I thought The Sharing was about promoting family values, right? Well, we're going to pay our respects to Grandpa G as a family."
11 "Dad, you don't understand!" Tom argued desperately.
Why was Tom so dead set against going out to the lake?
Okay, so it was boring. Grandpa G's cabin was the only house on the lake. His closest neighbor had been Mrs. Molloy and she lived seven miles away, halfway to town.
The only other house around was an old, abandoned hunting lodge across the lake.
No cable. No Taco Bell. No streetlights or crowds.
No movies. No malls. . . .
No Sharing. No Yeerks. . . .
"Uh, Dad?" I said. "How long are we staying?"
"It depends on the funeral. I'll write notes so you'll be excused from school through Tuesday of next week -"
"What?" Tom's eyes bulged in shock. "Tuesday? Dad, no way! Four days? I can't stay away for four days!"
"You can and you will," my father said, losing his patience. "We're going as a family and that's final."
Tom's throat worked. His hands clenched into fists.
And for one brief second I had the crazy thought that he was going to attack my father.
12 And oh, man, even though I couldn't morph in front of them, I could feel the surge of adrenaline that comes right before a fight.
Three, maybe four days. The maximum time a Yeerk can last without a trip to a Yeerk pool is three days. Four days without Kandrona rays and the Yeerk in Tom's head would starve.
Starve, Yeerk. Starve!
"It won't be that bad, Tom," I heard myself pipe up. "The lake's nice, remember?"
It broke the stalemate.
Tom looked at me. "You're an idiot, you know that?"
He was playing his role as condescending big brother. I was playing my role, too.
Starve, Yeerk. Die in agony, die screaming, Yeerk!
"Shut up," I said. "I'm not the one who's being a big baby about leaving."
I said it to annoy him and to bring us back to the rhythm we knew, the kind of normal sniping I could handle.
Because the hatred in Tom's eyes when he'd looked at my father had scared me.
And the hatred that had flared up in me, the hatred of the Yeerk, the sick thrill of anticipating its pain, had scared me, too.
"That's because you have no life," Tom sneered.
13 "Oh, right, and you do?" I shot back.
"More than you'll ever know," he said darkly, distracted now.
"Enough," my father said. "I'm going to change. When I get back we'll order pizza. How does that sound?"
"I'm not hungry," Tom muttered, staring at the floor.
I wasn't either but my father was looking at me expectantly, so I said, "Pizza. I'm there."
My father nodded, satisfied, and left.
I gave my brother a look of sympathy, making peace. "Maybe you can get out of it, some way."
I had to fight to keep the sneer off my face. Or maybe, Yeerk, your cover is falling apart, maybe you'll have to choose between keeping Tom and keeping your filthy life.
"Shut up," Tom said absentmindedly. The Yeerk had no use for me, no interest in me. I was dismissed. Irrelevant.
I turned and blasted out into the backyard, my mind already buzzing with the possibilities.
Tom's Yeerk was trapped. Under pressure. Squeezed. It wasn't ready for this turn of events. Didn't know how to play it out. Didn't know what to do.
An opportunity? Maybe. Yeah, maybe.
Die, Yeerk!
14 Supper was awful.
Tom tried everything to get out of going.
He begged. Pleaded. Complained. Sulked.
He even tried reasoning.
My father didn't budge.
I finished supper and bolted. I needed to think about what was gonna happen and I couldn't do it with Tom around.
I hit the sidewalk, automatically heading for Marco's, but I really didn't know where I was going.
I wanted to talk to Cassie, but she and her parents, both vets, were at some animal rescue seminar until later.
15 Too bad, too, because she was the one I really wanted to talk to.
Out of all of us, Cassie's the one who rea
lly understands the more complicated things: motives, emotions, right and wrong.
Marco's my best friend, and if I wanted to talk about what works, about how to get from point A to point B and forget the consequences, I'd talk to Marco.
But Cassie sees beneath the surface. I'm no genius, but I knew I was too close to this to see clearly.
"Yo, Jake man! I was just on my way over to your house." Marco. Jogging toward me. "I need your English notes."
I looked up, startled. "Oh. Uh, hi."
"What'd I do, wake you up?" he said, body-checking me.
I shoved him back. "Since when did you start saying To'?"
"I was going to yell 'Hey, handsome,' but I thought you might prefer 'Yo.'"
"Uh-huh."
"So, yo-yo, what's up?"
"I was just thinking about something," I said, shrugging. Then I decided what the heck. Marco's been my friend since we were in the sandbox. Plus, he'd lost his mom - complicated
16 story - so I figured he'd know how I felt. "My Grandpa G died today."
"Man. Too bad," he said, falling in beside me as we headed back to my house. "He was old, though, right? I mean he was in World War III."
"World War II, Marco. Two."
"No, duh," he said. "We spent a really unpleasant afternoon in the middle of World War II, you may recall. Or at least some time-distorted version of World War II."
Long story there, too.
"Yeah, he was in the war. The real war," I said as we rounded the corner to my house. "My mother flew out to help with the funeral arrangements. We're supposed to -"
My father's car wasn't in the driveway.
Odd.
"When's the funeral?" Marco said.
"I'm not sure. Probably Monday," I said, walking a little faster. The deep, dark part of my brain, the part that sensed danger, was already dumping adrenaline into my blood.
Something wasn't right.
"What?" Marco asked, instantly catching my mood.
"Don't know. A feeling."
A feeling like there was something important I'd forgotten. And because I had forgotten it...
I tried to shake it off. I walked faster. "I'll be
17 out of school Monday. Maybe Tuesday," I said absently, crossing the front lawn. "Me, my dad, and Tom are driving out on Saturday morning."
"That's what, four days?" Marco said, then grabbed my arm. "Four days without Kandrona rays?" he said in a low, tense voice. "Does Tom know how long you're gonna be gone?"
The Conspiracy Page 1
