The chunk of wreckage was being flown down in a commercial airliner, then transported to a Marine base, loaded onto a stealth jet, and flown to a NASA lab in Washington.
It was just what we were waiting for, proof that the Yeerks were here. On Earth. In America. If the government knew about the Yeerks, we wouldn’t have to fight alone. The secret Yeerk invasion would no longer be a secret.
But if we knew about the chunk of Bug fighter, you could bet the Yeerks knew about it, too. They wouldn’t want the wreckage tested. They wouldn’t want NASA scientists to discover it was made from a metal not found on this planet. And they sure wouldn’t want the media to spread the story.
Because the Yeerks don’t want all-out war. They want to slowly, gradually infiltrate the human race so that by the time anybody notices what’s been happening, it will be too late. Visser Three will have already won.
We were pretty sure they’d show up at the airport. And the Chee confirmed the story. The Chee couldn’t get all the details, but they knew top-level Controllers in The Sharing had been in closed-door meetings, going over flight plans and airport blueprints.
They were all worked up — we were all worked up — over a hunk of metal. We could’ve been killed. We could’ve been captured.
And the two Marines. They could be dead. Or worse. Because of me. Because of my stupidity. Because I wanted to save a hunk of metal.
Which I hadn’t saved anyway.
I pushed all the hard bags away and made a little nest of soft-sided suitcases. The cargo hold was full of huge metal crates marked “Boeing — Turbine PW400.” My pile of luggage was sandwiched in between two of them.
I found two garment bags and wrapped one around my legs and the other around my shoulders. I wanted to unzip the bags and put on whatever was inside, preferably a parka. I wanted to rip open all the luggage and find something to eat.
But I couldn’t. I was already a stowaway. I didn’t want to be a thief, too.
Right. I could almost hear Marco’s voice: Let’s see, Cassie, you pooped on a Controller, tossed two Marines into gun battle with evil aliens, probably got them and the armored truck guys captured or killed, and hijacked a baggage cart. Now you’re worried about swiping snack crackers?
I sniffed. Through the dust and must of the baggage I could smell oranges. Sweet, tangy.
I leaned out into the cargo hold. The orange smell grew stronger. On the other side of the metal crate I spotted a stack of boxes strapped to a pallet. They were all the same size and they were all marked ORANGES — NAVEL.
So many boxes. So many oranges. Would anyone really notice if one were missing?
I burrowed deeper into the stack of luggage and tried to ignore my hunger. And thirst. And the icy burning in my lungs every time I took a breath.
I needed to think. The plane would stop. Eventually. I’d just get off and find a phone.
Yeah, no problem. Just wait for somebody to open the cargo door, sashay down the conveyor belt, call my parents, and tell them to pick me up in South Dakota. Or South Yemen Desert. Or wherever the heck I ended up.
I sank back between the two crates. Why did everything have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t I spend one single day worrying about something normal, like embarrassing teenage acne or the pop quiz I probably failed in algebra?
Well, the getting out wouldn’t be so hard. I could morph a bird and fly out. Osprey this time, stronger and faster than a seagull. And then I could figure out where I was and how to get home.
Okay. That was the plan. I started to feel a little better. Morphing would solve the getting-out-of-the-airplane problem. Not the hunger. Or the thirst. Or the fingers and toes that were already turning slightly blue.
Except — wait a minute — yes, it could. I had the perfect cold-weather morph. Of course!
I felt warmer already. My head even quit throbbing.
And then I realized why.
The droning had stopped. The engines were silent. I waited for the plane to plummet toward Earth.
But it didn’t. It was perfectly still. Motionless.
Then —
ZZZZzzzzzzzzttttttttt!
ZZZZzzzzzzzzttttttttt.
A blinding green light flashed through the cargo hold!
For a split second I could see the plane’s steel bones through its metal skin. The green light penetrated suitcases and bags. Metal crates were suddenly transparent, showing huge engine parts inside.
Then the flash was gone. Black spots danced over my eyeballs.
I blinked. What was it?
But I knew: Yeerks. Somehow they’d figured out I was on board.
And I knew they weren’t finished. They wouldn’t X-ray the plane, then just go away.
I pushed the luggage and tried to stand.
“Whoooaaaa.”
I thumped sideways into one of the crates. My legs were dead. Not just stiff from the cold. Completely lifeless from the knees down.
The green light. But why did it only affect my legs?
I leaned against the crate.
The crate. Of course. My legs had been sticking out into the open cargo hold, but the rest of my body had been shielded by the engine parts inside the crate. Pure dumb luck had saved me.
So far.
I dragged myself back into my nest of luggage. Above me the passengers and crew were probably frozen in place. They didn’t have huge turbofans protecting them from the green light. But they’d be okay. The Yeerks weren’t interested in them. They’d thaw out, never knowing time had elapsed, never knowing they’d been paralyzed and unconscious.
Never knowing aliens had seized the plane in midflight.
Whhooosh!
The cargo door slid up. I peered around the edge of the crate.
A Bug fighter, hovering outside, holding the plane in place with some kind of tractor beam. The repulsive form of the Taxxon pilot filled the Bug fighter’s windows. An enormous centipede with a row of knife-edged teeth rimming the round mouth on top of its head. Its four globby eyes jiggled like red Jell-O.
My first instinct was to morph small. Hide.
“And be killed by a can of Raid? I don’t think so.” Rachel’s words. If Rachel were here, that’s exactly what she’d be saying. “They’re ready for small. They’re expecting you to run and hide. Don’t give them what they want, Cassie.”
The port of the Bug fighter rippled open. Two seven-foot aliens stood poised to leap into the plane’s cargo hold. They glanced down at the miles of empty space between them and the plane, then turned and gestured toward the Taxxon.
They were Hork-Bajir, storm troopers of the Yeerk army. Feet of a T-rex. Blades of a room-sized Veg-O-Matic. Deadly blades that covered their elbows, wrists, knees, tails, and raked forward like daggers from their serpent heads.
They were armed with bug spray.
Okay, Rachel. So small wasn’t the answer.
I had to think fast. What would Jake do? He’d … Well, he wouldn’t have gotten himself stuck in this cargo hold in the first place. Neither would Tobias nor Ax. Or even Marco. They were too smart. Too careful.
And Rachel? Smart, yes. Careful, never. This was exactly the kind of suicidal mess Rachel loved. And I knew what she’d be saying: “Surprise them. Morph something big. Fight back.”
Win. Right. Against how many?
Two. This time Ax’s voice echoed in my head.
Voices in my head. Definite sign of mental illness. Those golf clubs must have hit me harder than I thought.
But the voice made sense. A Bug fighter isn’t that big. Cramming those two Hork-Bajir in there with the Taxxon pilot was already pushing it. No way anything else would fit. Get rid of them, and I’d be safe.
For a while.
The Taxxon was angling the Bug fighter closer to the cargo hold. The Hork-Bajir waited, bug spray in claw.
“Okay, Rachel,” I whispered. “I’ll fight to win.”
I edged back between the crates and concentrated on the most powerful morph I p
ossessed.
My shoulders bulged, up and out, joining the hulking muscles of my body. I felt my legs growing stronger, longer, thicker. Felt. Yes. The new DNA threw off the paralyzing effects of the green light.
Cuuuuuurrrrrrrruuuuuuunnnch.
Bones cracked and re-formed as my knees reversed, bending forward now instead of backward. My hands and feet thickened into paws the size of catchers’ mitts. Claws shot from each toe.
The lower half of my face pushed out into a snout, tipped by a leather plug of a nose. My ears slid upward on my bulging skull. My human hair stiffened, hollowed, lightened to transparency, and spread to cover my body with fur.
My massive body. I was huge. Powerful. Unafraid. I hunkered down in the dim light between the two crates.
Ka-lunk.
The first Hork-Bajir leaped into the cargo hold. He peered through the darkness, then motioned toward the Bug fighter.
Ka-lunk.
The second Hork-Bajir jumped on board.
I could smell their musky stench, hear their talons clicking against the metal floor. My nose quivered. My ears twitched.
“GRRRAAAAAAAAAAWWWWRRRRR.”
I reared up from the crates. The Hork-Bajir froze.
I didn’t blame them. I was a bear. A polar bear. One of the most deadly creatures on Earth, when it wanted to be. I’d seen a polar bear sunbathe. I’d also seen a polar bear kick a grizzly bear’s butt.
“GRRRAAAAAAAAAAWWWWRRRRR.”
I lowered my girth against one of the metal crates and gave it a shove. It skidded toward the Hork-Bajir.
“HURR GAFRASCH!” They dropped their spray cans and turned toward the Bug fighter.
Not in time.
Thunk.
The crate rammed into the Hork-Bajir, knocking them backward like a pair of bowling pins. They tumbled out into space, followed by the crate of engine parts.
“AAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhh….”
Their cries spiraled into silence.
I turned toward the Taxxon. Its Jell-O eyes bobbed.
Its claws tore at the Bug fighter’s instrument panel.
Pffffffffffmmmmpp.
Another flash of light, orange this time. The airplane’s engines roared to life. The Bug fighter veered away and down.
WWWHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOSSSSHH.
Suction knocked me to the floor! The Bug fighter’s tractor beam must have been pressurized, and now the pressure was gone. My fur felt like it was being ripped from my skin. Bags flew across the cargo hold, slammed into the wall, and shot into space. Cords ripped loose. Oranges smashed against the wall. The huge crates of airplane parts skidded toward the opening.
I lunged for a cargo net. It ripped loose from its metal brackets and whipped out into the clouds. I grabbed at the wall, the floor, something, anything! My claws scraped against metal.
Thuuuuud.
I slammed into a crate. And clung to it as it slid toward the open door.
Crrrrreeeeeeeennnnnnnkkk.
Metal against metal. The crate skidded across the floor of the cargo hold. A suitcase burst open as it flew past me. Shirts and underwear flapped out into space.
I had to get the door closed! I dug my claws into the corners of the crate and reached one paw toward the ceiling. The suction nearly ripped off my front leg. I braced myself. The edge of the door was almost in reach. Another inch.
Crrrrreeeeeeeennnnnnnkkk.
The crate skidded forward. My paw brushed the edge of the door. I leaned and stretched.
Clannnnnngggkk.
The golf bag shot past, pummeling me with clubs. I felt the door slipping from my grasp. I dug my claws in and pushed. The door started to slide. Then —
The crate spun. I spun. Toward the opening! My front leg twisted, pulled. I could feel — could hear — tendons and muscles ripping. My claws broke free and scraped along the door.
My paw hit something solid. The door handle. I dug in and pulled with every muscle in my body.
The door slid forward and down.
Shhhhoooonk.
It latched shut. The whirlwind of luggage stopped. Boxes and suitcases dropped to the floor.
I collapsed against the wall of the cargo hold. Pain burned through my shoulder, numbing my front leg.
But I was okay. Okay.
Yeah. For now. But I knew the Taxxon pilot didn’t leave because he was scared. He left to get reinforcements. The Yeerks would be back.
Back and ready to party. Oh, brother. Now Marco was in my head. Telling bad jokes.
I rolled to my feet. I needed to be ready. My bear body lumbered to the center of the plane, limping on three good legs. I surveyed the cargo hold: big, roomier now that half the luggage was flying through the clouds. A total wreck now that the other half was strewn all over the floor.
There had to be something here I could use, something besides my remarkable talent for making a bad situation worse.
I plodded through a heap of mashed oranges. That heap could’ve been me, a big mound of mashed bear that had crashed to Earth. I shuddered. My fur rippled. Pulverized polar bear.
I stared at the oranges.
I rolled back on my haunches and licked the juice from my paws. They’d check, of course. They’d send more Bug fighters and more Controllers. They’d rip through the cargo hold from one end to the other, dousing every inch with pesticide.
But what if they didn’t find me? Wouldn’t they assume I’d been sucked through the door? That I’d joined the golf clubs in a mangled mess below?
Sorry, Rachel, but big wasn’t the only way to fight back. As long as I was shielded from the green light, and big enough to survive the bug spray, all I had to do was hide.
I raised up on my hind legs and pawed along the ceiling. Nothing. Plodded around the cargo hold, checking the walls and the floor, from back to front. Nothing but sheet metal and rivets.
And then I saw it, at the front of the hold, half hidden behind a crate. My big weapon against alien invaders. A zipper. A thick canvas panel was set into the wall, and along the edge ran a big, heavy-duty zipper. I jabbed a claw into it and tugged. Presto. An opening.
I nosed the canvas aside.
It was some kind of control room. Lights, switches, and computerized gadgets lined the walls. I pushed my polar bear bulk inside. The room was about my size. I swung around. On the far wall was a ladder.
And at the top of the ladder, set into the ceiling, was a hatch with a lever in the center.
I reared up and pulled the lever. It turned. I nudged the hatch with one paw. It inched up. Light streamed through the crack around it. I could hear the sound of voices and clinking cups. Passengers.
I settled the hatch back into place, left it unlatched, and plodded back into the cargo hold.
My plan was taking shape, but none of it would work if I ended up frozen by the green beam. I picked four engine crates and shoved them, one by one, toward the canvas, heaving them into a circle next to the zippered opening.
Then I crouched beside the cargo door and scraped my claws along the floor, digging deep gouges in the metal. I clawed similar gouges in the door itself, from the handle to the bottom edge. I sat back and admired my work. It definitely looked like the bear had been sucked from the plane while pulling down the door.
Good. I was ready.
I wanted to stay in morph. The bear was calm. Fearless. And warm. Almost too warm. But polar bear was too big for what I had planned.
I concentrated on my human form. Bones and muscles crunched and sloshed as the bear’s bulk began shrinking, rearranging. Paws became hands and feet. Fur faded into skin. The pain in my shoulder shriveled to a pinprick, then vanished.
I was Cassie. Regular human Cassie, sitting on the cold metal floor of the cargo hold, about to pass out from hunger. Well, from hunger, fright, and exhaustion. But food would definitely help. And warmer clothes. My morphing outfit just wasn’t cutting it.
I glanced around. I’d alr
eady lost most of the luggage. What was left lay in shreds around me. I threw off my guilt and began rummaging through suitcases.
Shorts. Tank tops. Bikinis. Oh, yeah, this stuff would keep me warm. Where were all the parkas?
I pried open an ancient square-cornered suitcase. Inside was a sweater. A man’s cardigan. The elbows were threadbare, and the whole thing reeked of mothballs, but it was a sweater. Packed under two bottles of prune juice. Ick.
I rolled the bottles aside. The juice sloshed, wet and cold. I was thirsty. Too thirsty to be choosy. I picked up the juice bottles and put them in a little pile with the sweater. I felt kind of bad. Somewhere on this plane was an old man who’d probably end up cold and constipated before long.
But thirst was stronger than guilt.
I closed the suitcase and continued my search, gathering more clothes and what little food I could find. I unzipped a sports bag, and a cell phone fell out. My heart leaped. I flipped the phone open and punched ON. Nothing. SEND, END, CLEAR, OPERATOR. Still nothing. Not even static. I tossed it back into the bag.
I uncovered a hiking pack, the kind Boy Scouts use, with a sleeping bag strapped to the bottom. I untied the bag and dragged it into the space between the circle of crates with the rest of my loot.
I rolled the sleeping bag out on the floor of my little fort, put on my Mr. Rogers cardigan, and laid out my feast: prune juice, half a roll of breath mints, and an entire unopened box of Slim-Fast bars.
I slid into the sleeping bag and fluffed a bathrobe into a pillow. It was almost cozy. Almost like camp.
Space camp. Complete with evil aliens who were probably rocketing back toward the plane, preparing to attack.
ZZZZzzzzzzzzttttttttt.
The green flash! I bolted upright. The engines were quiet. The plane had stopped.
Tssssseeeeewwww. Sssssssssssssss.
I sniffed. Bug spray! The Yeerks were shooting some kind of pesticide missile into the cargo hold.
The smell was getting stronger. I threw off the sleeping bag. Prayed I had enough time.
Tssssseeeeewwww. Sssssssssssssss.
I scrambled over the crates and through the opening in the canvas. Zipped it shut and swung up the ladder.
The Unexpected Page 3
